Garock thrust out his left to block the fired crossbow bolt with the thick layers of muscle on his forearm.
"Tss," Tycondrius hissed in frustration, reloading another bolt. The Orcish Samurai had Gold-Rank perception, the reflexes to match, and reacted to the tiny projectile as much as a bear to a splinter.
It only seemed to anger him.
Tycon quick-fired a second bolt at the charging orc's center of mass.
Garock ducked his head and dodged to the side, but his size worked against him. The blessed bolt lodged deep into the orc's right shoulder.
Tycon took solace that if he was going to die here, he'd at least be certain his opponent would be greatly inconvenienced.
