Ambrose felt the magic sweep over him when he heard the song, and immediately his hands clapped over his ears, atop the hood, muffling the sound even further. He concentrated on a fast-paced and merry song he'd heard in the recent past, running the tune through his head. After about thirty seconds, he'd decided that he could take his hands off his ears now, thank'ye ver'much. So he did, hearing the last diminishing note of the song, before he drew his longsword and headed into the fray.
He off-handedly noted another person wielding their weapon primarily in their left hand, a rarity in itself. But soon, he crashed into his first opponent, who stumbled away, turned to face him, and found, much to their dismay, he'd golf-swung his pommel into their crotch, then brought it back around to crack it across their helm. The soldier crumpled backwards, no longer a threat. A woman charged him, clad in Lycian armor as well, screaming her defiance. He sidestepped, tripped her, and would have half-sworded a thrust through her back had a third opponent not crashed into him.
Only, the soldier who'd crashed into him was bleeding from the mouth and his breastplate was dented. Fred shook off his distracted observations, because the woman he'd tripped, thank to his inattention, had risen off the ground and was running at him again. The mercenary gripped the blade half-way down with his right hand, using the weapon like a half-spear. A wild swing was thrown, but before he could parry, it was retracted and a deadly thrust to his left thigh replaced it. A feint?! He felt his pants ripping as a cool line parted his flesh. The burning pain began a half-second after, but Ambrose had used a pommel strike again, on her neck, covered in a mail coif, like his own. Had it been a cut, the blade would have done little, if anything. But blunt force transferred like lightning. The woman fell unconscious, either of a stroke, an aneurysm, or some other reason.
He made sure he had no one actively seeking his death at the moment, then felt just above his knee, where the woman's sword had pierced his pant leg.
Damn lucky, you are, Ambrose, he thought, relieved. Just a scratch.
Fred pulled off his hood, as it restricted his vision. He was thankful that his coif and woolen arming cap didn't fall off. He grabbed up the woman's unadorned helm, tried slipping it over his head, failed, and instantly hurled it at an opponent in front of Satsume. The helm bounced off the man's head with a hollow 'Thuonk!' sound, hit the ground again, and tripped another soldier.
He off-handedly noted another person wielding their weapon primarily in their left hand, a rarity in itself. But soon, he crashed into his first opponent, who stumbled away, turned to face him, and found, much to their dismay, he'd golf-swung his pommel into their crotch, then brought it back around to crack it across their helm. The soldier crumpled backwards, no longer a threat. A woman charged him, clad in Lycian armor as well, screaming her defiance. He sidestepped, tripped her, and would have half-sworded a thrust through her back had a third opponent not crashed into him.
Only, the soldier who'd crashed into him was bleeding from the mouth and his breastplate was dented. Fred shook off his distracted observations, because the woman he'd tripped, thank to his inattention, had risen off the ground and was running at him again. The mercenary gripped the blade half-way down with his right hand, using the weapon like a half-spear. A wild swing was thrown, but before he could parry, it was retracted and a deadly thrust to his left thigh replaced it. A feint?! He felt his pants ripping as a cool line parted his flesh. The burning pain began a half-second after, but Ambrose had used a pommel strike again, on her neck, covered in a mail coif, like his own. Had it been a cut, the blade would have done little, if anything. But blunt force transferred like lightning. The woman fell unconscious, either of a stroke, an aneurysm, or some other reason.
He made sure he had no one actively seeking his death at the moment, then felt just above his knee, where the woman's sword had pierced his pant leg.
Damn lucky, you are, Ambrose, he thought, relieved. Just a scratch.
Fred pulled off his hood, as it restricted his vision. He was thankful that his coif and woolen arming cap didn't fall off. He grabbed up the woman's unadorned helm, tried slipping it over his head, failed, and instantly hurled it at an opponent in front of Satsume. The helm bounced off the man's head with a hollow 'Thuonk!' sound, hit the ground again, and tripped another soldier.
![[Image: 20c7YiV.png]](http://i.imgur.com/20c7YiV.png)
Thank you Destin, for the awesome mug of Ambrose.