A Stand at the Cathedral (Shaka)

In all his time in the wilds, Shaka had tried to avoid the goblin tribes that were scattered throughout the Varisian forests. When left alone, they tended to fight amongst each other, killing each other off in droves as tribes split and merged in a chaotic dance of blood in the dark places of the world. They only became a real problem when something, some outside ****, provoked them.

Then they turned from strange thieving lurkers to creatures that would happily roast children over a fire and burn the world down around them.

“Then we stop it,” Shaka said, hefting his ax. The weight of it felt good in his hands, comfortable in a way that he would never have guessed when he first took it up those years ago in the foothills of the Fogscar Mountains. He turned to Anjella, who had proven herself more than capable now - his first opinion of her the previous night, when she approached his campfire, that she was like a feral animal still held. But instead of a scrawny coyote, she was a cougar. Powerful, graceful and deadly. “Are you with me?” he asked.

She frowned and cracked her knuckles with several loud pops. “Someone has to do this,” she said.

“Back us up,” Shaka said to the wizard, Colt.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said. “Just remember that anything that suddenly appears and doesn’t look like it belongs, probably isn’t real. Believe that, and you’ll see through it.”

Shaka rolled his neck and shook his head, getting himself into the right headspace again, then hefted his ax and trotted forward. Anjella followed, staying a clean four steps to his right and out of the followthrough range of his ax swing.

They didn’t yell a battlecry this time - surprise, however thin, would serve them better.

Both Shaka and Anjella broke into a run, and Shaka could just hear Colt casting a spell behind him. Suddenly, from amidst the goblins, a panicked whimpering erupted, drowning out their chanting and the song of the Warsinger. It sounded pained and urgent, and it set the goblins off in confusion.

It was a few steps from impact that Shaka realized it wasn’t panicked whimpering, the echoing magical sounds were a woman have an intense orgasm.

He almost laughed as his first swing clove into one of the torch bearing goblins, sending it’s innards to splatter across it’s compatriots.

The fight was chaotic, the goblins running in circles, half in coordination and half distracted by their own allies. They were fast and short, and both Shaka and Anjella were limited in the kinds of fighting they could use against such diminutive opponents without leaving themselves open to getting overrun.

Shaka backhanded one goblin as he used his ax one-handed to ward off another, and he turned to see Anjella had literally picked up a goblin and threw it two-handed into another, sending both of them reeling.

Then he heard the crack, and the bark, and the howl of laughter.

He spun and saw, halfway between the melee and Colt, the Warsinger had distanced itself and purple magical essence with oozing from it’s lips. A similar purple essence was aura’d around the Wizard’s head as he dropped to his knees, his goblet-implement clanging to the ground. Colt’s hands raised to the sides of his head as he howled inhuman, unnatural laughter uncontrollably.

Shaka took a slash across his calf for letting himself get distracted, and was **** to turn and cleave another goblin in two, as he stepped around two more that were trying to beat at him with their torches.

The next chance he had to look, Colt was still on his knees, face twisted into a rictus of inhuman comedy, and the Warsinger had closed with him. It had a knife, long and curved, and it raised it above its diminutive head for a killing stroke on the defenseless wizard.

“No!” Shaka snarled, but there was nothing he could do.

The blade swung down.

And dropped.

The Warsinger shrieked in pain as it was flung backwards onto it’s ass by the **** of the crossbow bolt that had severed it’s knife-hand.

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