"DOWN!"

“DOWN!”

          Foray had no idea who shouted, but long years of combat training took over and it mattered not.  His own weight, supplemented by the massive metal plates, took him quickly to the dirt, slamming both knees with numbing force.   Trusting his momentum, he rolled to the left, elbow spikes digging into the hardpack.  He backhanded his sword arm over the top of the roll, adding deadly power to its bloodied edge; it bit into the middle of the threatening kobkin, shearing one arm and slicing halfway through its torso.  The final arc of the roll pulled the blade free, allowing Foray to end the maneuver on his hands and knees, sword hand still fisted around the familiar hilt. 

          A brief aural review told him the skirmish was over, and he quickly scanned the field for Viper.  The barbarian stood some twenty feet distant, empty hands leaning on both knees in exhaustion.  A glint of pride stirred in Foray’s gut, despite the teachings of Cassock; He, Foray, had held his weapon through the awkward tumble.  Pride fails the prideful, his father would have said.

          As if in response, Viper’s exhalations gained voice.  At first, Foray failed to recognize the derision in each booming guffaw.  Of course, he nearly whispered, Viper would never drop that monstrosity in battle.  Watching the barbarian through the narrowing slit in his massive helm, Foray rose to his feet, slow and purposeful.  He knew the great helm would hide the rage in his face, but he was careful to control his body language, less he feed the barbarian’s glee with his reaction.