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Message: <blockquote data-quote="The Patriarchy" data-source="post: 71035" data-attributes="member: 162">The powerfully built rogue beside him—the one with the heroically strong frame and the mind of a razor—does not hesitate. In one fluid motion he and the slayer drop the coffin safely behind them, untouched, the bier poles clattering harmlessly into the mud. Then the rogue explodes forward. Two light maces whirl into his hands as though born there, and he becomes a storm of precise, merciless violence. Sneak attacks land like thunder—each strike finding the soft hollow behind a knee, the gap beneath a raised arm, the momentary blindness of rage. Four of the thugs never even finish drawing their weapons; they crumple in a bloody blur, throats opened, skulls cracked, bodies folding into the wet earth with wet, final sounds. The rogue moves like a machine built for this exact moment, eyes flicking across angles and distances with autistic precision, never wasting a breath.The curly-haired slayer is right behind him. He plants his quarterstaff and drives the fifth man straight into the dirt with a single, savage overhead smash that leaves the thug twitching and still.I lift my hand, whispering the words for an icicle, feeling the Lady’s chill gather at my fingertips. The spell leaves me clean and eager—yet every shard flies wide or fizzles into harmless mist before it can reach flesh. Rough luck; I barely scratch the air itself.Only two weak blows find their marks. A farm ptchfork scrapes across the rogue’s ribs, drawing a shallow line of red. A shovel clips the slayer’s shoulder hard enough to stagger him for half a heartbeat. The rest of the thugs swing at fog, trip over their own tools, or simply freeze as the halfling’s shouted truth echoes in their skulls: just drunk farmers. Three rounds—three terrible, beautiful rounds—and it is over.Four bodies lie on the ground, blood already soaking into the greedy soil of the Restlands. The last two throw down their rusted implements and run screaming into the woods, voices cracking with animal terror. The crows wheel overhead once more, disappointed but patient. The coffin rests exactly where it was set, pristine, never even touched.I exhale, pulse still singing. The powerfully built rogue straightens, breathing hard, one side of his shirt dark with fresh blood—seven of his eleven hit points paid in full. The slayer rolls his shoulder with a grimace, down to eight himself, yet both wear the same fierce grin. The small platinum-haired halfling hops down from his mound, still humming that absurd little tune, eyes bright with victory. The Lady of Graves watches, cool and approving.</blockquote>

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