There were six armored guards, now there are five.
One moment they are looking at the black-haired young man with brown highlights and their fallen comrade, the next moment they are clutching at their throats and leaning over trying to stop the flow of blood.
I drop five guards with four swings, clipping two with a forehand swing.
All five are bleeding from the cartilage that wraps around the front of their larynx, more commonly known as the 'Voice Box'.
They struggle while kicking their legs, grinding their knees against the grass, the red liquid oozing out of their necks trickles downhill towards Daveen who stares at it with a horrified reverence.
I make it to the woman before the slow-moving blood and carry her, she isn't stable enough mentally or physically, she will scream at a moment's notice if provoked.
Thoughts of preventing more violence motivate her silence, she believes these deaths are on her hands for not speaking sooner.
