A paladin does not abandon a friend in need.

Snapping out a quick kick at the orc you sent tumbling, you leap across to the orcish archer that is keeping Ramos' under fire. She turns to face you, but too late, and your punishing blow takes off both arms as she is readying another shot. With the upswing, you place a deep, long diagonal gash on her abdomen before shoving her roughly down with a shoulder barge.

There is no way she'll survive for long and certainly will no longer be a threat. Turning back to the fire, you see a burly warrior advancing from either side of the flames. In the distance behind then, you can just make out the gloomy shape of the last orc attempting to chase down Ramos, powerful swings of his two-hander getting tangled in the denser branches so far from the clearing. Your friend will have to manage by himself for now, as you have two very dangerous looking enemies of your own in the way. The one on the left of the fire wields an ugly looking scimitar in his right hand and a small fighting axe in his left. The other, a brutish giant, protected by a large shield, hefts an enormous mace, ridged and spined with crude flanges. They advance towards you, spreading out little by little in order to pin you between them and flank you. This is going to be difficult.

Assessing your greatest chance to be dealing with one of them as quickly as possible, you decide to go for the less well-protected one on the left. Darting towards him you make an opportunistic low attack towards his legs, hoping to either hobble him with a gash to the knee, or draw his parry and pause his advance for a moment. He drops his blade, stepping in towards your path and twisting around, turning away from you but safe due to having your sword to the other side. The reverberating shock of the impact jars your shoulders and as you bring the blade back up to attempt a strike at the orc's now-exposed back, he quickly lashes out behind him with the axe, striking viciously at your leg just above the knee. You almost don't notice it, pain dulled by battle-lust, but see it happen in the corner of your eye. Calmly, you reach down with your left hand for his wrist and jerk roughly downwards while bringing your uninjured right knee up sharply into his lower ribcage. You feel bones give way beneath the blow, and finish off the counterattack by smashing the heavy pommel of your bastard sword into the base of the orc's skull. Pushing yourself off him, you leap gracefully away... gracefully until you land, that is. At the impact of your landing, the injured leg gives way, and you collapse on top of it in a sprawling heap. You look up just in time to see the boot coming for your stomach before all the wind is knocked from your chest and you are kicked away, rolling; one arm flailing while the other is trapped beneath you.

Gasping, **** loudly, you try to move. A tress of your own tangled hair is pinned beneath you, wrapped around your throat and throttling you. Your left arm refuses any commands you give it, feeling spongy at the shoulder. It is probably dislocated. Your right hand no longer holds the sword, and scrabbles to relieve the pressure on your throat, freeing you at last to breathe again. With your legs curled towards you reflexively, you assess the damage. Your breath is still coming back in ragged gasps, but you are more or less able to fill your lungs. The left leg is awash in blood, but you suppose that it may be a small mercy that you were so comprehensively ground into the dirt as the wound appears to have been smeared with dead leaves and moss, and appears to be somewhat staunched for now. Your right leg, pelvis and stomach ache fiercely but don't appear to be too badly damaged. Not exactly optimal fighting condition. You look up. The larger orc has turned to help his comrade - that definitely seems like unusual behaviour - who grunts and shoves his friend away while clutching at his side gingerly. They both look at you with murderous hatred, moving with a relaxed attitude that shows they know they have you beaten.

If only you could prove them wrong. Flat out on your back, groaning, you have very little fight left in you. Your functioning hand reaches for one of the many knives you have about your person, striking out feebly at the ankle of the approaching enemy. He swats the dagger away effortlessly, and drops to his haunches by your side, crude and ugly face leering at you in triumph.