[TT] Practice, practice, practice. That is how you become the master of any weapon, everyone knows. But sometimes, being the master of Impromptu Fighting doesn't get you the respect you deserve.

...

The legion had traveled no more than twenty miles before they were beset by a horde, and the killing finally began. Sola held along the wagons, standing beside her companions to form the inner-ring defense of their supplies, when the armored soldiers of the Baron's legion broke formation under a hefty charge, and the Adventurer's Guild buckled in equal timing. As the Orcs rushed in among the reserve with howls and screams for blood, Sola killed five by her own efforts alone, and she did it with a shovel.

It was no ordinary shovel.

She'd inherited the implement when her father and brother had passed away after working themselves to death in the Crypted fields beneath the Blackened Spire's watch. It was made of dark oak, polished and enforced by the finest runes and inscriptions of power and longevity, and its spade was formed through a unique metal alloy passed only to the dedicated lineages beneath the Great Lord's reign. In her family's history, it was said that the shovel had been present beside the family head since the great betrayal, and perhaps even before that- as its metal was stripped from armor and weapons present on the field of that horrible tragedy.

But no matter the tool's quality, or her own mastery of the techniques passed from her family line of grave-keepers, it was soon apparent that there were far more than five Orcs leaking through the folded lines, and there were far fewer combat readied among the caravan to deal with them.

"Hold the right side!" Her companion, a husky looking battlemage, leapt off of the vehicle he'd been standing on with a long spear- thrusting it through a screaming Orc warrior as he drew his casting device. "I only have six shots- but I'll make them count!"

Even in the chaos of battle, the shocking bark of the weapon rang above the screams and shouts as it sounded fire. Sola turned to witness three Orcs in a row crumble in writhing pain as their chests and backs showered red. Engaging in another opponent, Sola felt reassured with his capacity. His magics were strange, but they were powerful, and in combat he was a force to be reckoned with.

She threw a wide arc, nimbly side-stepping a crude wooden short-spear that thrust towards her, as her foot kicked off the beast's chest. The effort of her blow did little to the massive creature, but then her shovel landed: Sharpened edge of the metal spade sinking deep into the neck and spine before drawing back in a spurt of death. Sola was already shifting towards a second enemy as it hit the ground- reinforcing the youngest of their group: a boy who went by the name of Lars.

Dancing in a short arc back and forth, an Orc growled and shouted curse, unable to find its way around the long shaft of spear in front of it, slowly backing the bow back up against the Wagon convoy. With a shout, Sola cut deep into its knee, smacking it in reverse with the wooden shaft, before braining the monstrosity heavily with a downward thrust.

Lars flashed a nervous but grateful smile in her direction, just as Sola's mind tripped a quiet snare of warning. As she turned around, ready for whatever it was that had set off her subconscious reaction to threat though, her eyes scanned and found nothing.

The heavy units of shields and armor had closed the gaps in their lines, dispatching the few Orcs still hovering beside them, and the main force was being dealt with accordingly. Still Sola knew something was wrong, as if something was absent from the din of madness around them.

Casting. There was no thunder of casting.

In a single fluid motion, Sola leapt onto the caravan roof, just in time to watch a Final surviving Orc stab deep into the battle-mage's belly- brutally forcing the man to fall backwards, landing heavily on the ground. At the sight of the deep red blood that shown on the wooden spear as it pulled back, a streak of dread hit her as surely as an arrow.

Around them her eyes could see over a dozen Orcish corpses, but the Mage's weapon was no longer held in hand, half buried among the dead beside him, but none of those mattered as Sola flew from the carriage roof, shovel held above her head like a woodman's axe: Smashing down with all the force of her frame, her weight, her momentum- shattering the beast's skull with a single impact.

As it crumpled, shovel deeply placed into the center of its hefty skull, she hollered for the healers. The world was a blur as she dragged the man inward, away from the shouting men and the spilling gore.

What words she shouted in that moment Sola wasn't quite sure- for as quickly as the dread had taken her, the same had stripped her mind as well; laying it flat on the earth as she let loose her cry for assistance over and over again. There was so much blood- so much blood: He was dying.

Lars came beside, her, face of horror as the scene. There was blood. So much blood, and as she stared at the mage, she could see his face was growing pale, breathing slow and shallow. Again she called for the healer, distantly acknowledging as the boy beside them ran off a a dead sprint with a grim expression.

His eyes were watching her in an odd way, as far-off gaze; looking up as his breathing slowed. The fae were spinning about him now, just as they always did but with greater intensity: as if clinging to his every fiber. She'd never seen another person gather so many of them, like tiny specks of glow only a few might notice, but they were there by the hundreds- each spinning along at their own pace with and odd glow of aether.

It had been like that when they'd first met too, a subconscious note of reassurance and trust during a night of uncertainty and fear. Swirled around in lazy orbits, as if warming themselves along a growing flame. Many hovered along his gaping wounds, deep red flowing along too quickly now, a flood she wished would stop.

As his eyes barely stirred as the slow breathing turned to intermittent gasps.

He'd been the first person she'd met on her journey, finding Sola when at her lowest. As if a quiet spell of magic, she began to follow him as if he held some secret guide along the confusing paths of life. With odd ways and strange logic, stories and impossible tales of a far-off homeland; she'd been convinced. Assured by a trick of the mind, a misleading twist of reality that he was permanent as she could be in this place. That he wouldn't ever leave, ever disappear: That he would outlive whatever trials they came upon, and ready them all for the next with nothing more than a wry grin.

But on the ground with his head resting quietly on her knees, the horrible sinking feeling of dread only worsened in her mind.

The sound of pounding feet and shouts, a white-cloaked man with a thick beard fell to his knees beside her, hands already aglow with the white magics of faith and healing. Sola ignored the expression on his face at the sight of her, wary glower and tired eyes viewing her with threatened uncertainty as he began to work. Beside him, Lars knelt down as well, eyes darting between those present before finally settling on the deep crimson leaking to the soil.

Carefully, someone set her shovel down beside them but Sola paid them little mind as a crowd began to congregate. From the inner caravans and wagons, meek figures or worried eyes, both strangers and poorly known acquaintances peering at the show with whispers of talk she'd not remember clearly. Hushed talk of cursed Elves and darker things, sharp laughter at the tool beside her and the plight of the man at her knees.

Few were the murmured offerings of empathy.

The man in white too began to mumble, a prayer, a hymn or perhaps a song of focus beneath his breath. It was quiet beyond that which might be discerned, but as the glow of his magics intensified and the sweat began to bead on his face, that dark expression only seemed to worsen. Sola had watched magic cast in war and seen it many times in youth for violence or destruction, but she knew nothing of healing. The only thing she knew was the approaching face of defeat, and the distant murmurs of those who had already given up hope.

To all the hells with them, they could rot and burn in the Dark Lord's crypts as she cradled the Mage's head, focus set on nothing else.

He had to live.

The fae seemed to swirl, faster and faster, rising along the healer's quiet chants, and a strange shiver seemed to pass along her palms- along the air itself as they quickened. A cold that wasn't cold, a loss of something that wasn't heat: As the chant rose, and the white glow of magics intensified, she could watched the odd shapes of fae rise from the ground, from the air, from nothingness around them- and she felt the unmistakable radiance of mana.

Mana rising like steam from the skin beneath her chilled hands, filling his flesh as if it were being stolen from the world itself, pulled against the current towards a single source. More glows of spirits and wisping kites of energy flew, spiraling with the intensity of fireflies on a summer night, swirling in a strange and foreign dance for those along the grave as Sola stared down at their unknowing master.

He had to live.