An axe smashed into Hilda's sabaton. Thankfully, the orcs had very low Dexterity ratings, so it only caused 4 points of damage. Hilda tried to catch it by pressing her knees together, but she had very low Dexterity as well. The only nimble creature in this encounter was sailing away to deal with the turbulent priest.

Hilda had already used both her second level spell slots today. She was now down to 6 hit points and playing the role of a Piñata for some clumsy but persistent oafs. One good hit and Hilda’s adventures would turn into something that only very sick people would enjoy reading about.

Trying to make herself as small a target as possible, Hilda had cast a first level heal wounds on herself. 9 hit points! Not bad! Next she swung on the vine to grab the spear hanging from the ceiling, turned around, and pushed herself down at the orcs. Still in the air, she hurled the spear at the asshole who stole her hammer. An instant before the spear reached him, she cast light on the butt of the weapon.

It wasn’t a strong light, barely brighter than a torch, but the sudden brightness overloaded the orcs’ darkvision, leaving them blinded for a few seconds. The spear missed its mark, but the shield to the face of the axe orc, soon to be an ex-orc, did not. Down he went, cross-eyed, and up stood Hilda, holding an axe larger than she was in both hands and glaring at the orcs with icy determination.

The remaining orcs circled her warily. The orc with the hammer charged forward even as Hilda dove under his blow. The crude blade of the axe tore through his hide, leaving a ragged, gushing wound in its wake. The orc made a few steps, then collapsed to his knees and fell on his face.

The unarmed orc dove for the hammer. He grabbed the handle with a victorious sneer just as Hilda brought down her axe, separating hand from wrist. The orc stared dazedly at his bleeding stump and the hand still clinging to the weapon, trying to understand what just happened. At the same time, Hilda felt an explosion of pain between her ribs. She was down to 6 hit points. That damn elven spear!

However, the purely female roars and snarls from the direction of the barricade filled her with confidence. The cheerful cry, “Hey! You’ll never believe where I just found a healing potion!” filled her with glee.

Hilda whirled around and brought down her axe on the spear sticking from her side. It hurt like hell but the spear was knocked from the hands of the orc clinging to it and fell to the ground with a melodious ring. Goddess bless the elves. Their items even sounded nice falling into muck.

The orc turned to flee, running in the direction of the shaman. Hilda picked up the elven spear, admiring the superb craftsmanship and elegant magic runes. She just hit it with all her might and didn't even scratch the smooth metal. Now there’s a level of craft that even the most cantankerous dwarf smith would approve of. (Grudgingly, while throwing racist slurs into the air.)

The handless orc lunged at Hilda, seemingly intent on biting her to death. Hilda had to admire his guts, which wasn’t difficult after she stepped aside and eviscerated the creature with the unnaturally keen blade of the elven spear. It collapsed to the ground, moaning and groaning.

“Grab that orc!” Hilda shouted at Philly, who was squatting by the shaman, covered in so much blood she looked like glazed ice cream.

“Hey!” the ghoul cried back. “This guy surrendered. Why not just let him go?”

“Public service.”

Philly shrugged and lunged to intercept the orc. He tried to dodge her, but proved no match to the ghoul’s superior dexterity. Within seconds, he was lying on the ground, paralzyed with eyes wide with horror.

Hilda tossed the ugly axe to the floor and walked through the carnage, dragging her spear behind her. The orc made pathetic whimpering sounds as it tried to move its limbs. “I… surrenda…” he managed to spit out.

“Yeah?” Hilda asked, admiring the spear’s leaf-shaped tip. “Got your surrender card with you? Signed and everything?”

The orc stared at her. Hilda stabbed him through the face.

“He surrendered…” Philly complained and went back to looting the dead shaman, who looked as if a particularly large bird had made a warm, gooey nest from his entrails.

Hilda sighed and sat down, leaning against the barricade. She was down to single digit hit points and had almost no spells left. The drow lived right across the chapel, but Hilda wasn’t sure she trusted Mina enough to arrive in this condition. Then again, if there were wandering monsters in the dungeon…

“You didn’t have to kill him…” the ghoul complained, throwing an ugly gourd at the dwarf’s lap. Hilda uncorked it and sniffed. That was a healing potion alright. She placed it by her side, determined not to use the preciou item unless absolutely necessary.

“He who is compassionate to the cruel ends up being cruel to the compassionate.” Hilda replied, quoting the commentaries. “Sparing these monsters so they could go on hurting people would not have been good or lawful.”

“And pretending to fear them just so you could attack them with an advantage? Was this good and lawful?”

Goddess save me, I’m being sermoned by a ghoul… Hilda took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “Yes, it was just and honorable. The only dishonorable thing in a war is losing.” She kicked at the dead orc. “Those things have no honor. They didn’t let us pass because of their compassion or decency. They let us through due to fear and greed. Therefore, they deserve neither honor nor compassion: only fear and hammers.”

“So good and bad people fight the same way?” The ghoul frowned. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Everyone fights to win. Not fighting to win doesn’t make you good, it just makes you dead. There’s no glory in defeat, Philly. Moral victory is a term created by losers who want to feel better about being losers. You and I, we don’t have the privilege to be losers. If you know you’re just, then fight with everything you’ve got for all your ways are justice.”

The ghoul tilted her head at the dwarf. “How do you know you’re just?”

Hilda frowned for a moment, considering the question. “I can still cast divine spells?”

Across the chapel from the injured women, a couple of gargoyles were talking about life and love and all the other important things.

“Did you hear something?” Asked a gargoyle shaped like a pig with horns and the wings of a swan.

“Don’t change the subject!” Threatened its companion, a demonic zucchini with the face of a wasp and tentacles instead of wings.

And so the argument went on.