The ground was littered with bleeding and screaming men. Diogre didn't get off unscathed either, he was covered in blood of his practice dummies and his own.
His clothes were torn, blood trickled from his arms to the ground. He was still firmly gripping his dagger, one of his eyes was closed and a fresh scar ran through it.
Diogre's breathing was ragged, he was tired beyond belief, his knees were buckled but he was still standing. Most of the men were on the ground writhing in pain, the few that stood weren't so quick to attack. They were considering him carefully.
The more injured he was the sharper he became, like a wounded animal backed into a corner. He wanted to prove to these people that Ogres were nothing to scoff at, most of all he didn't want to disappoint the two masters who were watching him like a hawk.
"Aren't you going to interfere?" Conor raised his eyebrow and asked.
"Why? He's doing just fine."
"Ahem...That's debatable."
