Isaac knitted his brows, clenching his jaw as he looked at the man, embroidered in ash-grey clothing, stained with streaks of blood across the coat and trousers.
"Tell me, bandit," Isaac called out, his gravelly voice a mockery of the situation, slowly stepping forward as he peered side to side out of the corners of his eyes, "what do you hope to achieve out of depriving us pilgrims?"
The bandit chuckled. "Just like anyone else old man... we need to defend ourselves.... be it money, weapons... or numbers."
Isaac looked over his shoulder at Arthur, who wore a frown as he countered with:
"Why would you kill us though?"
The bandit laughed, slapping his knee. Isaac merely shook his head and sighed as he looked down.
Amidst it all, Arthur's shoulders tensed up as he looked around with a raised brow, feeling his face heat up in his embarrassment.
The bandit slowly regained his composure and said:
"Maybe you're not fit to become one of us. The scent of your mother's milk still lingers in your presence."
A flame exploded in Arthur's head and chest, and he found himself stepping forward immediately, willing to scale the buildings just to teach the bandit a lesson. But Isaac stopped him immediately, holding him back with his arm simply blocking Arthur's path.
"Grow up!" Isaac whispered, his eyes fixed on the bandit, who idly walked along the rooftop. "You're falling for his tricks! He's trying to goad you, and you're letting him win." He took his attention to the bandit as he said:
"I will have you know, that you're making a grave mistake, bandit. We are not your enemies. Let us pass, and we shall forget that this ever happened."
The bandit chuckled, grinning as he shook his head. "Since you're so kind, old man, we'll give you another offer: Hand over the boy, and you may pass in peace."
Isaac scoffed, casting a fleeting glance back at Arthur as he grabbed an arrow that was as large as a pike as he said:
"I hope you're ready to die... bandits."
'Bandits?' Arthur repeated in his head.
As soon as he questioned it, four others revealed themselves, wearing equally bloody clothing. Two wielded scythes and the other two wielded glaives, each painted in viscera and dark red.
"Run you fool!" Isaac yelled, confused to see Arthur merely standing around and staring.
Without second thoughts, Arthur ran back. His heart raced, making his head feel heavy with its echoing pulse, adrenaline coursed through his veins, and his fatigue became the least of his worries.
'Damn it!' he yelled inwardly. 'I need to find a way to help Isaac!'
Meanwhile, the old pilgrim watched as one scythe and one glaive wielder chased after him, while the other two dropped down. The one in ash-grey clothing remained up top, however, also in possession of a great arrow and great bow as he said:
"Give up, old man. My men won't hesitate to kill you. Would you rather die than live?"
Isaac stared with his dead eyes back at the bandit leader, simply ignoring the others that closed in on him. He sighed, rolling his eyes, and stretching his limbs as he replied in his monotonous voice:
"Better than dying to the eldrites."
With a speed that one would miss if they blinked, Isaac thrust the great arrow at the glaive-bandit, who was circling around to his left.
The glaive-wielder blocked the blow with his rectangular blade. No matter how quick he reacted, a well-placed thrust sent him crashing against barrels.
Isaac's turn to defend arrived, met with a diagonal swing of the scythe-bandit, the whistling of wind trace its path.
The scythe-wielder's inexperience, however, was revealed with him holding the weapon as though it were a baseball bat. Letting the weapon swing him around with it.
Seeing this, and with little time to do so, Isaac swiped at the top of the long-haft weapon, making use of his superior range to alter the scythe's trajectory.
The scythe-bandit, as Isaac presumed, followed along with the change in trajectory. Within a split second, he found himself losing his balance, but Isaac was there to help stop his fall...
At least, that was the case, upon the arrow crunching through bones, splattering blood as it pierced through the back clean. The scythe-bandit's life had been seized just like that, and it all happened within a matter of two seconds.
The bandit leader roared in anger, taking aim while he remained in the safety of his vantage point. He readied to fire, feeling a wellspring of anger burst within his chest, his icy gaze fixed on Isaac, realizing that the pilgrim, no matter how old he was, was a threat to be reckoned with.
He released the giant arrow, deafened by the recoiling bowstring that resounded against the devastation the arrow brought. Dust and debris scattered in the air, creating an opaque veil on Isaac's location, and he could only hope that he struck his target right there and then.
Still, he remained vigilant, listening for even the slightest noise, or even the slightest flicker of movement. Poised at the ready to fight head on, he grabbed another arrow, watching as the dust flew with the wind, revealing nothing... not even the corpse of his recently killed comrade.
A growl, echoing between the streets below, caught the leader's attention. He rushed to the other side of the roof, finding Isaac and the glaive-bandit caught up in an intense duel.
Isaac, however experienced in the ways of combat he may be, found it difficult to keep up with a weapon intended to bring out human savagery. The sheer power that the glaive offered rivalled any amount of strength that Isaac could muster.
Each swing, blocked against the shaft of his arrow, sent a shock through it, causing Isaac's hands to surge with the bludgeoning pain. Even worse was the fact that his opponent was no mere bandit. His movements were too quick. He swung with precision; with intent; with power.
If an average bandit tried swinging any weapon, it wouldn't matter for Isaac, it would be a simple fight no matter what. But a weapon match up became a serious issue when technique was introduced. All it would take, between to fighters of equal level, was a matter of who wielded the right weapon at the time.
'Could he be a pilgrim?' Isaac wondered, gritting his teeth as he blocked against a swing threatening to sever him at the waist. The pain delivered by shocks from blocking was getting to his hands, the large arrows in his quiver—strapped over his back—made him tired, and he needed a way to quickly deal with the enemy.
It was then that a reckless idea landed on his mind, but he needed the right time to execute it, or he'd be faced with certain death. Isaac parried just underneath the downward swinging blade, sending it up, and giving himself a window of opportunity to follow up with a counterattack.
The glaive-bandit, however, demonstrated incredible agility, quickly recovering from his exposed stance and sidestepping. The great arrow graze along his bloodied maroon coat, gliding right across the smooth leather.
Isaac found himself in a tricky spot, just about to recover from his thrust attack, while the glaive was headed straight for his right arm. But this was the perfect opportunity to test his reckless idea. Either way, it was die or lose an arm—which, in the world of Erthyl, was just as good as dying.
Without hesitating, Isaac made a sharp pivot, spinning on his heel as he turned his back to the hatchet. With the fluidity of a dancer, Isaac reverse gripped the great arrow and thrust backward. Had he been even a hair's length closer to his side, he would've found himself losing a chunk of his flesh.
Instead, a visceral mix of sharpness and depth filled his ears. The glaive collide with the great arrows on his back, shielding him from death, and the one he used as a spear met some resistance as the sounds clashed.
Just within the periphery of his vision, he noticed beads of blood crash against the cobble roads, and a guttural gasp and cough followed, raining the road in a rich, dark red.
Isaac looked to the rooftop on his right, taking notice of the bandit leader pointing his drawn great arrow straight for him. Isaac could tell just by the frown, the glaring wide eyes, and the heavy breaths, that behind the bandit's ashen facemask, was a snarl that demanded his life.
The battle had not yet been won.