The sound of a cannon reverberated throughout the muddy path. Bushes and trees trembled as the rush of boots and blades passed through them. The air was choked with the smell of burning smoke and gunpowder. Steel clashed with steel, and blood flung about.
A man dressed in dark armor, wielding a silver blade that glowed red, was pitted against five men; they had many weapons at their disposal: Swords and pikes, shields and axes. He ran up to them and, one by one, they began to fall in line, charging at him.
They were thugs; brigands dressed in rags and stolen steel. Some had a pauldron, some a breastplate, others a full set of armor that was rusted and barely holding together. Their weapons were worn and most likely not even theirs. When they spotted the well-equipped man's wagon, they saw the opportunity to scavenge new, expensive gear. Four on one, odds that favored them. Be that as it may, they miscalculated who they were facing. The armored man dashed through them, pushing them aside, kicking them, and distancing them from one another
The first one was a brute, wielding an axe that was stained with blood and rust across its surface. He ran up to the man, swinging wide from top to bottom. The armored man swayed to the side, a simple step, and then pushed his hands forward, thrusting his silver blade into the brute's throat. It was swift and lethal. The large man, twice his size, fell on the ground with no resistance, clutching at his wound.
Two more thugs stepped forward, charging at the armored man. One wielded a spear, and the other had a shortsword. But the swordsman was composed and lax, and with a swift whistle, the sound boomed from his helmet as he shouted what seemed to be a command.
"MUTT! SIC!"
Blurring through the grass, a large beast erupted off the ground and pounced on the spearman. It was as big as a dire wolf, and its tail had a sharp stinger at its end. It toppled the man, bearing its fang, and it tore right through the thug's throat, goring him instantly. His brother-in-arms watched, terrified, hurling his sword up and slashing downwards to save him.
"MUTT! STING!" Another command was shouted from the armored man.
The wolf-manticore hybrid heeded the command and, with a simple motion, its tail swiped at the brigand's blade, parrying it effortlessly. He was shocked and terrified, looking in front to see the armored man face-to-face with him. He was punished with an armored glove straight to the jaw, the fist hooking him to the ground. Next came an armored boot that stomped on his head, and it came over and over again.
There was another in the warrior's company, a young boy with white hair. In his hands, he held his own sword, and he parried blow after blow from another bandit. In comparison to the man in dark armor, he was frail and built weakly. His arms were only skin, and his boyish apparel made him seem out of place in this field of battle.
"FINN! I COULD REALLY USE A HAND HERE-" His cry for help was interrupted by another blow from the bandit's blade. He managed to block the deadly blow, but a swift kick from the thug had landed him straight on the ground. He tried to retrieve his blade, get back up, and continue the fight, but he was met with a blade that hovered near his throat.
"W-Wait! Please, spare my life! Don't kill me, damn it!" The boy pleaded for his life, but the bandit only laughed in response. His sickly cackle was accompanied by a twisted grin as he spoke. "In this land, small fry like you are slaughtered. There is no surrender! Now, no more funny business; drop your weapon and tell that hound to stay put.Or else..." The bandit's blade glanced sharply at the boy's head.
The armored man groaned in frustration, dropping his blade in response. He put his hands up in the air. His spiked helmet stared emptily at the bandit, darkness following from the eyeholes of the thing. "Scary! But that's what I expect from an 'Honor Guard'. You managed to kill four of my boys. But no matter, I'll be sure to give you the same treatment. Now come closer, and keep those hands in the air if you know what's good for this little shit."
The guard obliged, slowly closing in on the thug, but something about his calmness tipped off the bandit; a bead of sweat ran down his face, and he glanced back down at the ground to see his hostage, only to see no one there. Panicked, he looked around to see where he would be, left and right, his head turned sharply, fearful glances, only to be left bewildered. "WHAT?! WHERE IS HE?!"
It was too late now. And as he looked back at the armored man, he only saw his towering figure looming over him. His lanky stature was no match for the steel that covered his body. He tried to swing his blade but failed. His hand was held in place, a metal glove gripping tightly at his wrist. He screamed in fear for his life, shut up by a blow from the guard's helmet. He fell flat on the ground, a bead of blood now crossing his face.
"Your use of the Trickery was good, but your swordsmanship is lacking. We will discuss this later." The guard's voice boomed from his helmet, staring at the ground to see that the boy hadn't moved at all in reality. He held in his hands a grimoire that highlighted arcane tomes on its pages; an illusion was cast from it. The bandit's anxiety gave in, and his fear of losing his only hostage made it come to reality.
"The hooligan was about to slice me up! I had to do something!" He was cut off shortly by the furious shout of the guard. "AND YOU THREW YOUR HONOR AWAY BY BEGGING?! TO BANDITS?!" The man was angered, and with another groan, he stepped away from the boy.
In the land of Ebonvale, a warrior culture had grown over thousands of years. To surrender to the enemy was considered the highest disgrace for a warrior. Finn, the Honor Guard, a warrior who had spent his entire life in the field of combat, found it disgusting to see someone surrender. You fight until you die, or else you're worthless.