The Yellow Band - Part 3 (alt. title: the Pig can write more than dialogue)

Blazing green lines extended two feet from both gloved hands. The gloves themselves were cracked black leather. He ran forward, lithe and ever so fast. He landed in the middle of the courtyard with a single effortless somersault.
Those blue eyes – blue like water should be – scanned the walls that surrounded him. There were six crossbow wielders and an old Ghi-Nome on a giant ant. He was brandishing a rod with a pyramid at its apex. The Wizard pointed the wand at Chorgil and a purple haze appeared around the Elf’s face.
The crossbows twanged and the butterfly took off. The mask didn’t want to get hit.
Bolts ricocheting from the cobblestones, he ran for the north wall. Just before collision he stabbed the Twin Blades of Grass into the solid rock and jumped on top of the copper hilts. The grass blades flexed under his weight and propelled him into the air like a catapult.
Up in the air, he whirled like a tornado. His eyes glittered as the butterfly settled on the burning remains of his nose.
He held out his hands and sang as he began to fall. The Twin Blades of Grass thrummed within their rocky prison and snapped free. They trailed burning emerald light as they spun through the air. Chorgil’s hands grasped them just as he landed on the ant’s back, next to the Wizard.

The crossbow-wielder’s head – the upper half - fell off. The Dwarf grabbed the pink-splattered half-orb from the ground and tossed it to the one which was engaged in the act of firing.
The Ghi-Nome fired and his bolt slammed into the cleaved skull fragment, punching a hole clean through. The bolt hit Vechus’s helmet with a violent clanging sound.
Vechus rushed in and dove forward, aiming at the enemy’s toes. He cut them off from the left foot.
The Ghi-Nome fell on top of the Dwarf and screamed. Frothing bubbles appeared around his lips and then he was silent.
Vechus rose. He shed the corpse like a leaf sheds a solitary raindrop. He picked up the shattered half-skull by the crossbow bolt and held it high with his free hand.
The Dwarf walked into the enemy camp, wielding his burden, wearing that horrible, toothy grin.

Sylvia cut his throat and smiled at the next one in line.
‘I love you,’ panted the little fellow with bright yellow eyes. ‘I love you!’
Sylvia cut his throat and smiled at the next one in line.

Hissssss….
Hissssss….
Hissssss….
Hissssss….
Hissssss….
Hissssss….
The sounds of frantic conversation behind the battlement and the results…
‘Now that’s just completely unfair,’ said Stilt. ‘You’re all coming at me with those silly helmets backwards. It is true that I can’t see your eyes… But you’re all completely blind, I hope your realize this.’
‘Oh, hello Vechus. How is it going? Your gigantic poison axe looks exceptionally fine in the morning sunshine.’
The sounds of frantic repositioning of helmets, blinking…
Hissssss….
Hissssss….
Hissssss….

Philippe went after the Wonton mercenaries. He had to occupy them to keep Sylvia safe.
They were enormous, close to 7 feet tall, clad from head to toe in blue Trommergis steel. They used axes and cleavers that made Vechus’s toy look like… a toy. With all that blue steel they even gave Chorgil trouble.
There were nine of them, a full platoon. They had a berserker with them. The naked man carried a huge quarterstaff with a small forest of steel chains and led balls swinging at the end.
The Berserker roared and swung the enormous flail. A chain came off and flew over the wall. The rest of the Wontons hefted their polearms. They said nothing. They were professionals. Wontons who made it out were all mercenaries. It was their only way out.
Philippe drew a black rapier. It looked like it had a brittle cast iron blade.
‘Well, boys,’ he said. ‘This is a Gaevit Luitra. You may have heard of this one. I don’t talk when I fight, but you deserve to know what’s about to happen to you.’
The Berserker broke into a shambling run. The rest of the Wontons closed in on him, neutral, workmanlike, calm.
‘All right then,’ said Philippe and leveled the rapier like some conductor’s baton. ‘Say hello to FlameBender.’