Those Who Fight

>Garacia mostly avoided the flying men by luck. The mamono charge against their line scattered his fellow soldiers like so much paper. The major, but not sole, cause of the disarray stood before him. The large armored body of the Soldier Beetle wasn't nearly as intimidating as her impassive but intense stare. She seemed fixated on him. For a moment his hopes flared as a soldier ran at her. Not breaking her stare at Garacia, she swung her large pincer in a line at the approaching soldier.

>The roaring man, who Garacia now recognized as his friend Serhat, leapt over the large limb in a feat of expected athleticism. Serhat was known as a skilled swordsman. The leap did him little good, as her shield slammed into the man while he was mid-air. For a moment, the man was held up by the shield. Strangely, Serhat seemed more worried by something coming from the direction from which he'd charged. A Salamander appeared whence, her tail burning with a furious flame.

>Garacia's mind slotted the details into place -- now realizing that Serhat's deep voice had made his scream of terror sound like a roar. Garacia ran forward uncertain which of the mamono to attack. Something primal prompted him to terror at the thought of facing the Beetle. He ran at the Salamander with his sword drawn. Almost absentmindedly she beat his blade off the line of its thrust and moved her sword in a strange up and down waving strike against his.

>Somehow this knocked his blade out of his grip, and it flew spinning only to land near the Beetle. For a moment, the Salamander looked at him with disdain before the force of her clawed foot kicked him backwards. He heard her speak as he hit the ground forcefully, "Work on your art, faggot. You, on the other claw, have what I want. Trade?"

>Garacia looked up groggily to see the Salamander pointing at the Soldier Beetle, presumably asking her to trade. The Beetle nodded, now holding Serhat aloft with her large pincer. The soldier was thrusting his sword in a dizzying series of attacks at the human portion of her, but the Beetle's grasp of his body and quick shield movements kept his attacks ineffectual. The Salamander produced a chirping sound as she watched them, the flames of her tail bursting in great rhythmic gouts.

>Garacia dove for his sword. Blade in hand, he stood shakily. The primal fear of the Beetle had grown somehow, despite the Salamander's easy outmaneuvering of him. For some reason, he'd rather fight the Salamander again. He was beginning to recognize that Serhat probably felt the same deep sense of terror at facing the Salamander, despite how the swordsman was easily outmatched by the Beetle.

>Garacia slashed at the distracted Salamander, a diagonal strike meant to take her in the left shoulder. She held her sword pointing vertically as she beat his blade to the outside, her scaled forearm moved to take advantage of his momentum. Her elbow met his nose with a brutal crack that made him drop his sword and fall backwards. Holding his bloody nose and forcing his blurry vision to focus, Garacia turned to the Salamander.

>She spoke again, eyes still on Serhat’s fight while in the Beetle’s grasp. “Nothing personnel kid, you aren’t my type.”, she raised her voice and called to the Beetle, “Does he do anything for ya?”

>The Beetle knocked Serhat’s thrusts and slashes aside with her shield before slamming it forcefully into the soldier held in her pincer. Serhat gave a grunt of pain, he looked to be as beat up as Garacia felt. The Beetle stoically turned her head to the Salamander and shook her head in the negative. With that, she flung the man to the ground beside Garacia and leveled her pincer to point directly at him. That impassive gaze of hers filled him with dread. Somehow Garacia knew that no other enemy on this battlefield could truly defeat him. Bruised, damaged, or broken, he could and would still fight back. He turned to look at his recovering friend, only to see the same dread blossom on the Serhat’s face as the Salamander stared at him. The men shivered in the odd silence of the battlefield, aware that they’d finally met their match.