Barron watched with awe and begrudging respect as Marrow strained against the metal door, the corded muscles of her back bulged and strained, looking as if they threatened to break free of their fleshy constraints as she threw all of her might into prying the sealed door ajar. Part of him wanted to help her - he was a gentleman after all - but part of him also thought that he would only get in the mighty gladiators way. Plus, it was breathtaking to watch her work. He had never had an opportunity to see her fight in the gladiatorial pits, but he could definitely see how she had come by her fearsome reputation. Strong as a lion and twice as lethal, he could not imagine the bravery - or stupidity - of any opponent who deigned to face off against her twin blades willingly. And so he sat back and watched as she slowly worked the door open and he reflected upon the day’s events; idly picking stubborn bits of burnt tar from the magnificent dagger that Sinikka’s father had forged for him while he pondered.
When Barron first met a person, his initial response was to try to figure out their weaknesses and how to best them in a fight – a habit learned by hard living upon the harsh Manean streets. He was usually able to pick out some fault to exploit pretty quickly - be it greed, overconfidence, a gimpy leg, addiction - but this group he traveled with now had a surprising shortage of such weaknesses. Sure, Bexley seemed pathologically averse to bows and crossbows, should that even count as a “weakness” - the powerful warrior instead preferred to get up close with her giant sword. So, attacking her at range would be the best course of action if he hoped to stay alive in a confrontation with her. But if she did manage to get into range with that mighty blade of hers, Barron was unsure how long he would be able to stand against her; his daggers seemed tiny and ineffectual in comparison with that massive two-hander she wielded with such grace and lethality. When they were being overrun by the blighting tree creatures and had decided to back up to a new position, Bexley had seemed wholly unwilling to retreat from combat. It wasn’t bloodlust that consumed her in that moment, but rather supernatural bravery coupled with a powerful disinclination to put someone else’s life at risk – an marvelous trait in an ally, and a terrifying one in an enemy. Keep her at range and run if she gets close.
Likewise for Marrow and Sinikka and Burryaga. Marrow was a true artist with her twin blades, a painter who used razor steel as her brush and blood as her palette of choice. There was a level of familiarity with the way she fought and Barron’s own use of twin blades, and she also fought with a ferocity that bordered upon madness, though hers seemed more controlled than his own. Their fighting style was similar indeed, but her blades seemed to hit harder and truer than his and Barron had watched the gladiator shrug off blows that would have felled him twice over. Keep her at range and run if she gets close.
Sinikka, trained since an early age by the crown to fight as a soldier and knight; Barron initially had not been worried at all by her. Knights, he had assumed, were posh and honorable and wholly over reliant upon their steel encasement and ferocious reputation. Therefore, while he had never faced one in open combat, Barron had no fear of them. They were ponderous and slow, and the gaps and creases in their steel shell would allow small blades and fast hands easy access to the ripened fruit encased within. None of these stereotypes applied to Sinikka though, he realized over time. The girl was wrapped in a lord’s fortune worth of steel, but she moved with grace and elegance in spite of the onerous burden she wore. And that spear…that spear was a marvel in and of itself, but in her hands it was pure magic: lashing out to its full fifteen foot extension and striking down enemies before they could even close the distance with the speed and lethality of a striking serpent. And, if her enemy did manage to sneak past that barbed first strike and get in close, Sinikka would draw the fearsome weapon back to her with a snap of her wrist in order to fight in close quarters, striking with the razor sharp blade and the steel-capped butt end of the spear, wielding the mighty spear like a Rylian monk might utilize a spinning staff. Watching her in combat was awe-inspiring and utterly terrifying to behold. Keep her at long range and run if she gets close.
And Burryaga…Barron did not know where to begin with this strange warrior. Like Barron and Marrow, the monk eschewed armor in favor of flexibility and speed, and he moved like the wind during a great storm: fast and powerful and devastating if he caught you off guard. And that strange staff of his - hinged in two places so that it was actually three small staves in one - the monk made it writhe around his body like a constrictor encircling its prey, spinning it in wide arcing rings around himself as he danced with otherworldly grace through the battlefield, leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. Barron prided himself on being a pugilist, a veteran of many a street brawl who used his fists to earn his reputation, but Burryaga was far faster and he seemed to hit harder than Barron thought possible. There was no one Barron feared in a boxing match but he doubted that he could hold his own against this man in a fair fight. And as for keeping him at range, Barron was fairly certain that he had seen the man catch an arrow in mid flight and hurl it back at the shooter at one point during one of their battles. With speed and reflexes like that, how would you defeat someone like that? Stubborn tenacity? Luck? Poison?
Finally, Mordantyr. Barron looked up from his dagger and eyed the small man as he rested with his back against the wall of the tomb seemingly lost in thought. A male wizard - an impossibility, for only women could wield the arcane arts it was said. Mordantyr was hunted by the Enclave for the heresy of simply existing in defiance of the natural laws, and you would have to be powerful to survive in the face of enemies like those. Barron had no quarrel with the witches of the Enclave, at least he didn’t until he found out that they had a tendency to murder boys who showed a knack for the arcane – now they could all burn for all he cared. So, it would be better to say that he used to have no quarrel with them, but he had never really feared them either. “Tis mighty hard to cast a hex with a blade in yer back,” Earl was fond of saying whenever the subject of the witches came up, peppered with a good “Gimme a good crossbow any day” or a “Four good men with some sharpened steel’ll send em runnin’.” Barron had taken solace in the confidence of his former friend and mentor, and he hadn’t given spellcasters the respect they clearly deserved, for now he had seen what they could actually do. Mordantyr hurled blasts of burning fire from his fingertips; he blasted a half dozen saplings dissolving into splinters with a seemingly idle flick of his hand; and he had sent a waves of devastating thunderous force into the mobs of the tree creatures as they were attempting to overrun them. It was safe to say that they would not have survived the battle without his magical skills, and as such he was clearly someone to be respected and feared. Such power. Raw, unbridled, barely restrained chaos molded into arcane fury by pure will. What else was the man capable of? How could one face off against such an enemy, capable of shooting fire at a hundred paces or blasting you with thunderous waves of force if you got in too close. Kill him while he sleeps?
Barron looked back around at his companions and felt a great sigh of relief that these thoughts were merely mind games born of paranoia and not something he really needed to consider. He was grateful to have them fighting by his side rather than having to face off against them – their enemies would cower in fear if they knew what they were up against. He wasn’t sure how he had found himself in their company but he was certain they seemed to be cosmically entwined, bound by the impenetrable golden strands of Fate for some divine purpose. Barron almost scoffed aloud at the thought, had this group made him religious? A believer in the Fates? No, as powerful as his friends were and as good a team they made together, it was dangerous to find yourself reliant upon others. After all everyone leaves you in the end, as any good orphan knows. As Barron slipped the dagger he had been cleaning back into the sheathe strapped to his forearm he remembered another aphorism that Earl was fond of spouting, “Screw the Fates. Gimme a sharp blade and I’ll carve my own damn fate.”
Then his friend, his anger, spoke to him in that cocky, coaxing way of his Look mate, I’ve never steered you wrong have I? Barron grunted in affirmation and tried one more time to pivot the flailing tree creature around him and into the glowing coals. You know what you’ve got ta do, don’t ya? Barron grunted again, this time in annoyance; because he knew that his friend was right. He shifted again, this time putting all of his weight back onto his heels, and he hurled himself backward into the flames, dragging the shambling, flammable brambles into the fire with him. The sickly flames immediately perked up at the unexpected offering, and the waning heartbeat of the fire grew stronger and surer until it again burned with life. Barron grunted again, this time with pain, as his leather boots and pants and the flesh within bubbled and scarred and popped as the greedy flames gnawed hungrily upon them. He slammed the conflagrating tree creature to the ground, where it writhed in agony for a brief moment before succumbing to its fiery fate; the flames crackling merrily as they feasted upon its still form.
As Barron stumbled out of the fire and frantically patted at the stubborn flames that had latched onto his feet and legs, the smell of burnt flesh and leather filling his nostrils, as his old friend again whispered in his ear Good show mate, I missed you. What would you ever do without me?