He stepped back, making room, and Rainheart flexed his neck, recovering from the vicious bend that he'd put in it. He took a moment to look down on his armour, seeing the deep gauge that Oliver's sword had left in his shoulder plate, as it swept towards the man's neck. As of yet, there was no blood, but it hardly seemed to matter.
Vaguely, Oliver was aware of the noise from the crowd. The uproar of the peasantry. It was he that they cheered for. They felt a stronger connection to him than they did some random General. But he knew that, if it was a true peasant that stood across from him, it would just as easily be that man that they cheered for. Such were the fickle hearts of the lowly, desperate to see themselves in any man of their station that performed greatly.
General Rainheart pulled his glaive behind him, his longbeard swishing from the motion. Oliver had to respect that he could manage to fight with such a thing on his face.
