The moment the birds stop chirping, Ayla knows something’s wrong. The back of her neck prickles as her predatory instincts go into overdrive, and she narrows her eyes. Nostrils flaring, she inhales deeply and then grips her longspear tightly in her right hand. She’s so keyed into the forest around her that she doesn’t even notice her charge moving ahead of her, instead sweeping her gaze across their surroundings.
Then the idiot blood mage speaks and just like that everything goes to hell. There’s a glimmer to her left—light flashing off of metal—and she has just enough time to lunge forward and slam into the blood mage as an arrow bites through the air where he was standing a split second before. They hit the ground, hard, but Ayla’s on her feet in an instant, longspear at the ready. A man in ill-fitting fur armor springs from the bushes with an axe aimed at her face; she spins and delivers one well-placed slash across his torso, splitting open his belly and spilling its contents onto the ground. He falls with only a strangled scream to announce his death.
Just like that the forest around her erupts with men and women who’re no doubt raiders, if their ragtag clothing and shoddy weapons are anything to go by. They’ve definitely got the numerical advantage, but they’re facing off against someone who’s fought genlocks and hurlocks and ogres for years on end. Not to mention, she’s pissed as hell.
With a guttural snarl she pivots just in time to drive her spear right through the throat of a woman trying to flank her, kicking the corpse to dislodge her from the spear’s blood-red tip. The body goes flying and knocks over another man who was fast approaching, twin axes raised. As soon as he hits the ground, Ayla drives her spear down into his chest, puncturing through his cracked leather armor and ripping through his heart.
One by one the raiders rush her, and one by one she cuts them down with a brutal and barbaric efficiency. She fights like an animal; every move she makes has a purpose, and that purpose is centered entirely around tearing everything apart. It’s only a matter of moments before her face and her hair and her pelt and her soul is spattered with blood, and she relishes in every drop of it with an expression that’s somewhere in between reverence and pure, wholesome violence.
This is her religion and she worships every single goddamn corpse.
Even when a quick-footed rogue manages to dart past her guard and open up a gash on her arm, the delight in her eyes doesn’t fade. Instead she just retaliates with a hiss and then smashes her spear through the rogue’s eyes with enough force to crack most of the bones in her face. Kicking her away, Ayla turns to face the remaining raiders who circle her warily, and that’s when she notices one of the raiders has a staff instead of a sword.
A mage. From the look on his face, he’s channeling a spell. And knowing the piss-poor control that apostate raiders have, Ayla knows immediately it’s nothing good.
Her body’s already in motion even before her thoughts have finished processing. By the time she realizes what the mage is doing, she’s already got her arm up and she’s releasing her precious longspear with deadly speed and lethal accuracy. Locked up in his channeling, the mage doesn’t even have a chance of dodging; Ayla’s spear slams into his body and a sickening crack resonates as the metal embeds itself into his spine.
For a brief moment, nobody moves. All of the raiders just stare at her, watching as she straightens, weaponless but by no means harmless. Blood drips down the cut on her arm, trailing down her hand and dripping from her fingers onto the grass. She’s at a severe disadvantage now, though she doesn’t show it. Instead of flinching she stares straight ahead, her hands curling into fists as she turns to face the largest of the remaining raiders. Her lips curl as a promise flickers through her eyes, one that she will die before she breaks.
She will send their bodies to hell and bring back their heads.