The floor, not yet washed of blood stains, was splashed again with trickling crimson.
The metallic clashing of weapons echoed in the hall, accompanied by the curses of those who fell.
The throat-sealing steel blade, sprinkled with the cold gleam of blood-red.
After all, they were just peasants who had toiled in the fields; without the advantage of numbers, even clad in armor with battle experience - how could they stand against warriors trained in combat since youth.
The eyes of the tender, young boy, misty and red, futilely tried to protect his fallen companion. Little Brandon's screams, filled with fear but driven by immense rage, still propelled him to stab at the unstoppable Heavy Armor Guards with a short blade.
The Lord's Guard raised the blood-stained long sword, his eyes under the mask showing slight hesitation.
As he swung down, he moved his wrist, opting instead to strike with the hilt, and knocked the extraordinarily brave boy aside.
