Anwyll gazed down at his abdomen with a grimace.
'What a hassle,' he thought before a groan of pain escaped his lips. His hands trembled.
His greatest concern now was bleeding out. He was Fallowmere's last hope. If he died here, the entire province could be erased in a single night.
So, while the wretch reeled back, disoriented and bleeding from its mouth, he ripped a strip of his cloak and wrapped it as tightly as he could around his abdomen. That would slow down the bleeding for a while.
Luckily, the creature's strike had missed any vital organs. His death wasn't imminent, not yet. Against all odds, he might actually survive this.
Gripping his weapon, now reshaped into a vicious pickaxe, he forced himself to his feet.
Facing his enemy, for the first time since the battle started, the odds looked almost fair. Almost.
A scythe was never meant for puncturing armored flesh. The curved blade of his spectacular weapon excelled in slicing flesh, not piercing.
