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Time seems to slow down for Milon as he charges forward against the rebel line. Advancing behind him, men of his own personal company stand with readied arms.
The lines collide with violent force.
Milon, wielding his halberd with both hands, brings the savage weapon down upon the infantryman in front of him. There's a struggle, a contest of strength, before the halberd throws his opponent back.
The infantryman, pushed by the men behind him, is forced back into pitched, one-on-one fighting with the noble.
It is claustrophobic. Milon is pressed shoulder to shoulder with the men around him. There are allies behind him and enemies in front of him, blocking his movement. Behind his visor, he breathes heavily, his pulse pounding like a bass drum in his ears.
He is surrounded by death and hell. And the only way to survive is to kill the man in front of him. Milon's strikes are fueled by adrenaline and desperation as he rains blow and after blow onto his opponent's shield.
On the third, Milon's halberd hooks onto the shield. Milon takes a step closer as he wrenches the shield toward him. His halberd slides off the shield, allowing Milon to drive it up and into the man's chest.
The look of shock and resigned doom on his face burns itself into the noble's mind.
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