"Run…" She said, her voice a whisper. Only Alia caught her. She glimpsed at her mistress's face. She was a head shorter than Lasha, and when she looked up, she could see right into her eyes. She grasped for Lasha's hand. Whatever fear Lasha felt, Alia – a gentle soul, despite the fire that she routinely displayed – likely felt far worse.
Even the priest in front of them – despite his spear being ready – seed absolutely baffled. His normally refined appearance was barred by a mouth that hung half open.
It was terrifying. An abnormality. An impossibility. Yet Oliver stood, completely nonchalant in front of them.
He'd removed his jacket for the purpose. He'd made a big enough deal about getting a newer and cheaper one – which Verdant had eventually done for him – that even Lasha had been aware of it.
The jacket that he'd already stained in blood, he now discarded, bearing a loose blue shirt to the elents.
Gods, was he smiling?
The Hobgoblin scampered around loudly, but it hadn't closed the distance yet. Oliver remained nonchalant. He twirled his sword in his hand, testing its weight. He was all that stood between them and an impossibly grizzly death.
Would they just be another statistic, a warning to future students about overestimating their capabilities and venturing into the parts of the forest that they'd been warned away from?
Sohow, she believed not.
As Oliver settled into his sword stance, there seed to be a glow off him, sothing that fought back the overwhelming darkness of the Hobgoblin. How could he be the sa height as her, and yet appear so large?
The Hobgoblin could stand it no longer, it thudded forward. Its weapon was a thick bit of wood, moulded for its purpose. Thicker than a spear, and just as long, it swung it easily, battering the space in front of it. Where were the openings in that? There was no dodging to the side, or making one's way past it. There was only retreat.
Oliver t it head-on. He didn't take a step back – he dove forward. The creature reacted instantly. Lasha's heart caught in her throat, thoroughly expecting him to be turned into a stain of blood, but before she could even track his movents, he'd dodged back, settling on his calf. Then, he sprung forward again. Was that not her manoeuvre?
The way he did it seed far more cunning.
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He broke past the Hobgoblin's guard in an instant, his speed ferocious. The Hobgoblin's missed attack rendered its weapon a liability, as it lacked the ti to reposition it. It abandoned the club, and raised its fists to its head instead, defending its neck.
Oliver's sword dug deeply into the forearm and there was a grand spray of blood.
The Hobgoblin's other fist ca swinging for him in the sa instant. As he fought, Blackthorn overlaid herself on his position, she couldn't help it. With the retaliation of that attack, she saw only death – she wouldn't have been able to respond to that.
And yet he did. What he did wasn't a dodge. It was sothing else entirely. A dodge broke montum, it made one slow his attack. What Oliver did was like a puppeteer guiding a puppet with strings. He'd brought the Hobgoblin exactly where he wanted it.
He'd baited it into delivering the strike. By the ti it neared Oliver, he'd already rearranged his feet, and was delivering another blow of his own, right to the Hobgoblin's midsection.
The sword speared straight through, snagging a lung.
So that was what class looked like. That was what separated the skilled from the amateur.
Yet even there, Blackthorn had failed – she'd already begun to relax, upon seeing the Hobgoblin land the killing strike. It was the sa thing Oliver had told her earlier: don't leave your sword buried in a kill. Move to free it straight away.
She saw once more just how well-founded that advice was. The hate in the Hobgoblin drove it to unbelievable lengths. Even with a sword piercing its lung, it sought to grab Oliver in a bearhug, and drag him down with it.
Again, it seed as though Oliver had baited it into that attack. But how could he? How could the Hobgoblin seemingly continue to do exactly what it was that Oliver wanted?
He pulled his sword free in a flash, ducked the hands that were coming his way, and swiftly hamstrung the Hobgoblin, slashing both its legs from the back, forcing it to his knees.
Before the observers could even gasp at the brutality, Oliver's sword ca hungering for the neck. It severed straight through, finishing it off, without fanfare or celebration. It bespoke of a man that had done the sa thing hundreds or even thousands of tis before.
He kicked the headless corpse to the ground, and surveyed the rest of the clearing, seemingly satisfied.
"Well, there's that one, I suppose," he said nonchalantly, turning to them. Lasha was not the only one frozen in shock. It was Verdant that unthawed first.
He dipped his head reverently. "Once more, the Young Wolf shows how unworthy I am of serving him. I endeavour to better, my Lord."
It was not the only ti she'd heard Verdant call Oliver 'my Lord'. She'd found it inappropriate each ti he did it – for it was a title that did not befit Oliver's rank in actuality – but now, after seeing that display with the Hobgoblin, there was sothing about her that understood. Sothing that almost made her want to do the sa.
There was an aura to Oliver Patrick that seed to demand that people follow.
Oliver raised an eyebrow. Verdant was always saying strange things, it seed. He wondered quite why the others were so silent. They stared at him intently, as though they were dogs and he was holding a scrap of at.
He supposed it made sense, in so sort of way. The Hobgoblins were intense, after all. Nila had been quite shaken the first ti she'd seen one. He'd just expected that it would be a little less, from these students who were so much more worldly than a Solgrim villager. But the opposite was true. It seed to affect them even more than it had Nila.
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