Morne extended his shield hand, catching a falling leaf in his palm and eyeing it expectantly.
To his disappointment, the leaf didn't sink into him as it did for the elves around him. Tilting his palm so it could resume its path toward the ground, he raised his head to look at the front lines.
Things weren't going well.
Some small part of him had expected this to be easy once he had seen that there were only four mutants. After all, they outnumbered the monsters seventy-five to one. The last thing he had thought would happen was the Runners bulldozing through their shields and sending blood flying in every direction.
Their claws sheared through the knights' armor with startling ease, needing only one or two strikes to cut through and rend the flesh underneath. Morne thought he saw a blackish liquid fly off of the claws of one of the mutants when they lashed out, and every piece of armor they struck was left blackened and rotten.
