Drew On- Blinded

The fallen Lionguard tugged a knife from his belt with his free hand, raising it high as he staggered to his feet. He snarled and rushed his shadowy assailant, mangled arm trailing uselessly in his wake. At the last, terrible moment he realized what manner of beast he was facing, the Werewolf leaping up into the soldier’s torso and launching him skyward toward the shrieking mob. The guard somersaulted through the air, limbs flailing before crashing back to earth on his head. Drew Ferran, the Gray Wolf of Westland, bounded forward.

The crowd—so brave moments earlier as the soldiers abused their prisoner—turned to run. While the soldier with the flaming torch remained beside the stocks, his companion lowered his pike. The Werewolf twisted as he rushed the man, the heavy blade catching him below the breastplate. Drew snarled, feeling the steel slice past his guts. He brought his left arm up, fast and hard, an uppercut heading straight for the Redcloak’s chin. The steel-capped stump of his wrist caught the man’s sweet spot, ligaments snapping as the jawbone crumpled. The pike tumbled to the ground as the Lionguard dropped, choking and fumbling at his shattered face.

The remaining Redcloak was already swinging his torch. Drew tried to step clear, but the Lionguard’s fury saw the brand home, striking the Werewolf hard in the face. Burning flowers bloomed before his eyes, the torch’s bright light blinding him. Sparks showered his head and smoke scorched his throat as his fur smoldered. Drew knew only too well the danger of fire, having witnessed firsthand the damage it could do to therianthropes, in spite of their magical healing abilities. He raised a thick forearm to his face, trying to wipe the heat from his eyes, but it was to no avail: the white glow filled his vision. The Werewolf recoiled as the Lionguard seized the initiative.

B5 P1 C1