She stood, as the Spring, strong against the monsters of Decay. Forward and left, as the Sentinels of the Empire. An elbow, crushing, as the Paladins of old. The crush of her gauntlet against maw, as the Steadfast of the Kingdom. She will fall, but after her enemy.
She is the Summer, revitalized against the monsters of Rot. She is as the the Immortal Paladins of old, the rising fist of the Kingdom. She will rise, after her fall.
She falls. She protects as the Steadfast: all else will survive. She will provide for the rising of the future.
In her fall, she sees the Skeleton. In her fall, she sees her end. In her end, she sees the end of all. It is blackened, it is foul. She sees the end of all. From this, there is no spring.
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She crawls, she strikes, she sees her foes struck down. The Ywrzim, they fall. They will not swallow the village. These will not. She cannot stop the rest. But that is all she can do.
She rises to strike at more, before they reach the village. She ignores the Rot in her gut. It will kill her, but this is all she can do as this village's Ranger.
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She is no Ranger. She is a child. She has been to the City. She has been to the Guild. Laughter was her only prize in returning: scorn her celebration on return.
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Her Baban lied to her. She is nothing. The Book lied to her. She is nothing, and the Thing will kill her. It is her final Beast. Except it does nothing but drool on her. Her sword - her knife - lies in it. Perhaps...
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They will not accept her. But she will protect her. They have no other. So she will do. It is her Vocation. She will die for them, one day, but it will be worth it. She thinks.
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The claws care nothing for her plate. The jaws nothing for the chain. Her sword clattered and broke against the steel hide. She is spent. But, for all this, digs her fingers against the hide, and prays. She prays to the only god she can: the god of her oncoming death. She begins her chant, to, if nothing else, protect her village from her last failure. From this, an answer:
The beast stops, and lifts. She hears a voice.
"Kisd, tidemi-thajo?"
Bekou!
She feels blood pool in her nether regions. She knows this is the end. It reaches out for her throat, pauses, and reaches for her sword. It is broken, and smoking, but it grabs it.
"What are..." she mumbles, before it grasps the hilt, and turns it at its erstwhile master. Black flames lick about its length.
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The knight has time. Too much time: she sees the skeleton pick up the sword. She feels it rake her frame. She hears the incantation, though she understands it not. She smells the growing rot and decay. She sees it plunge down towards her heart, and would rely on her breastplate to shield her. But it is not to be. She remembers her oaths as a girl: to protect, to provide, and to see prosper. She despairs. She despairs and ends her prayer:
"Here I end, but let them live. Send them a protector in my stead. Never, protect them."
A black light shines from the blade, pulsing in time with her heart as it slowly presses through her armor. The pain is exquisite, but fading. The pain is...