In the corner of the room two burly men were taking shots, surrounded by a pile of empty glasses and a chanting crowd. Someone was tipping the entire pot of soup into his mouth drunkenly, spilling more than a little of what remained on his face. Tanlin, perhaps the least drunk there, was rushing after a giggling little girl in an attempt to remove the half-full mug of ale from her hands when shards of wood burst everywhere. As he dove forwards to shield the girl from the worst of the finger-sized wooden shrapnel, he saw his comrade on door duty being blasted backwards, holding his own stomach in his hands. He looked down. The kid stared with the look of a stunned fish. Her brain hadn’t fully processed what was happening. Tanlin tore his eyes away first. He scooped her up and dashed towards their bolt hole leading to the sewers, holding her head at his chest so she couldn’t see.

“Easy now kiddo, everything’s fine! We’re just… just playing some really high-stakes tag! Yeah! A friend of ours loves the game, I swear he gets a bit too rowdy sometimes, but kicking in the door is pretty tame for him! Come ‘on, uncle Tanlin will show you his favorite hiding spot!

He could only hope that the kid couldn’t hear the trembling in his voice, nor notice the fact that his fellow gangsters were gradually splitting up at pre-set ambush points. Though he was clearly incompetent with children, she accepted his flimsy lie and threw her arms around his neck. Yes, it was just a game.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Bert sported a grimly proud smile as he looked around the base, seeing the Blinders rush to follow the worst-case scenario plan he had made the moment Tim had revealed his intentions to kill the heroes. “Hey hey, my friend, the night is still young, why not have a drink before we start the unpleasant business?” He drawled towards the splintered remains of the beautiful door Glenson just finished painting, casually hiding his trembling hands behind his back.

“Nah. Ya see, I don’t drink, and by the looks of it I have lots of work to do.” Adrian cheerfully replied as he strode over the threshold. Bert scowled. Buying time might be a bit harder. He half turned to glance at the gnome brothers who stood behind him, nodding in approval as they readied the shortswords he had kept strapped under the table. A tiny voice in his brain, the smart one, told him to run. To follow the others into the sewers. Maybe if he ran fast enough he could live to see another day. To see the kiddos again. Lotte would show him her schoolwork, while Hugo would beg him to find a blacksmith willing to take an apprentice for the hundredth time, and Bert would only smile and pat his head in response. He had found one weeks ago and the money was already paid. Some man who worked in the market near the town square.

Still. It was just a tiny voice, one drowned out by another voice in his head, one that reminded him of the kid who had swiftly become a another younger sibling to both him and all the other worthless, murdering bastards in the gang. Of his brothers in arms, who had and would shed or spill blood for the good of them all. And so, as per his plan, the top fighters of the Blinders readied their weapons and steeled their hearts to buy a few seconds.

Adrian stepped closer, a leering smile on his face as he lightly scraped the sides of his curved knife with his nails. It produced an otherworldly howling sound akin to a wolf screaming in horror. Bert sucked in his breath, readying his trusty brass knuckles as the gnome brothers spread out to his sides.

One second.

Adrian’s knife howled forwards, the wind blessing the blade to effortlessly split open the wooden floor, but Bert threw himself to the side just in time as the gnome brothers struck forwards with the speed of vipers.

Two seconds.

Adrian flicked his free hand towards a pouch on his hip with an unnatural speed, the dagger within flying out to pierce the eye of one of the brothers, killing him instantly. The surviving one roared with rage, swinging his shortsword forwards with mad abandon.

Three seconds.

The blade of the shortsword was caught on the hilt of Adrian’s knife with laughable ease. Another knife from his hip pouch, a similar size to the one that had reaped one life already, swung forwards to cut deep in the gnome’s cheek. Bert did not miss the frown of the hero as the knife caught itself in the gnome’s mouth, most likely in teeth.

Four seconds.

Bert swung a quick haymaker towards the hinge of Adrian’s jaw, capitalizing on the hero being busy cutting through the very enamel of the gnome’s teeth.

Five seconds.

Adrian stumbled under the weight of Bert’s blow, allowing for the gnome to slash at the hero’s left knee with his shortsword.

Six seconds.

The grim smile on Bert’s face spread as he beheld the tiny line of blood running down Adrian’s knee, not even fading as the gnome was swiftly decapitated in response.

Seven seconds.

Bert raised his brass knuckles in an attempt to parry the blade of Adrian’s knife. A metallic ‘cling’ rang out as the blade was pushed away and the brass knuckles were sliced cleanly in two.

Eight seconds.

Bert ignored the rushing flow of blood seeping down the mangled remains of his dominant hand in favor of palming a leaf-bladed knife from his waist.

Nine seconds.

The knife in Bert’s hands shattered as he used it to block Adrian’s blade.

Ten seconds.

There was a coldness in his chest, the feeling of air licking the vital parts of his body that should never see the light of day.

Shit.

A sudden loss of strength followed as some sort of strange, sticky liquid began to run down his neck. A quick glance down was all Bert needed to tell it was blood.

Eleven seconds.

Bert closed his eyes, one last time.

And thus passed Bertrick Ironhand.