[IRP] The Highest Spire

[Andy]

After fleeing that accursed inn with Roland in tow and finding themselves in a quiet hamlet, Ambrose decided, strangely for him, that he would attend the mass that was to happen that day. He hadn't really expected much of anything important when he walked into the cathedral today. He had expected a pack of lies to be fed to a bunch of sheep, and none of them to stand up and do anything. He expected the mockery that the Church of the Preservation of Sanctity had made of Elimine to be praised as it was expected of them. He was surprised when the young girl stood in the pulpit and began railing against the church. That the guardsmen came after her for it was to be expected, as was the most craven of the villagers fleeing. Those that remained, a surprising number, in fact, either cried, "Heretic!" or they looked expectantly at the girl, as if they were waiting for a sign of victory.

Ambrose noticed that while most of the guardsmen were close range fighters, there was an archer aiming his bow in front of the pulpit. If no one acted, and quickly, the girl would be dead. The mercenary stood, stepping out of the end of his pew, silently drawing the steel blade he carried around, and running up behind the archer. Before the man could react, Ambrose kicked him in the back of his weight-bearing knee. It hit the floor. He was going to turn, he thought, before Ambrose decapitated him. Blood spattered on the floor.

Gasps of horror came from those watching, likely those same few who still called 'Heretic!' before. The swordsman grabbed up the bow that the dead archer had dropped and nocked an arrow he pulled from the corpse's quiver. Aiming, he fired at the cluster of guards at the base of the stairs. One of them dropped his weapon, screaming at the missile that had shattered his elbow.

The mercenary, staunchly an enemy of the Empire from the day of its formation, called out to the young woman, "Don't be afraid. The Empire's enemies never stand alone!" Where her voice echoed but lightly in the large building, his own echoed with strength. One of the guards broke away from the others as Ambrose took another arrow and began to aim. He charged down the center aisle, and died with an arrow in his throat, his attempt to duck at a chest-level arrow failing.

Ambrose dropped the bow and picked up his sword again, grasping it with his left hand near the quillions, his right hand on the pommel, in a low guard. He strode toward the pulpit area, eying the remaining guards.