From the left a whiff of a spear, then to the right an arcing shimmering slice of a glaive. A swing of an ax cleaved only slight strands of hair, blown back with a swing of a silver sword that overpowered all.
Eshwlyn readjusted the grip on her blade, weaving past a rapid flurry of blades, studying, assessing, green eyes flicking, scouring, dozens of movements, reactions, performed in minuscule fractions of a second.
Her opponents were fierce, highly capable adversaries. A dozen as one, a harmony of strikes leading from one to the other. It was as if she was fighting a single intangible beast, adapting, reacting, just as fast as her.
Knights.
Elf Knights.
Everywhere she turned to, the gleam of armor consumed her sights. She could not escape it, in vain, she tried to fight it. With every clash, every blow she landed, turning from one Knight to the other, it felt as if she was defying fate, resisting it… doing all she could to keep at bay the inevitable.
