are made of these~
Joseph "Honest" Sherman - Bandit Fort, Eveamoor
They'd ascended some stairs and left the massacre behind by now. The cold, stone walls were dimly lit by narrow windows. Several halls and passages branched out from the path they were on, through which he could hear the echoing sounds of clashing steel and panicked shouts. Honest walked behind Cass, since he wasn't sure where, exactly, they were heading. She'd mentioned something about meeting up with her group and he had to assume that that meant more mercenaries. He'd worked with other mercenaries before, of course. He wasn't thrilled about it, but working in groups was necessary in their line of work. They never really seemed to take much of a shine to him, either, and usually ended up alienating him after a few days. He'd made a close friend once, though. A man called Ryder, who had beamed all the time and was great with a dagger (and hadn't had his stomach sliced open on the battlefield at twelve years old, cursing the world with his very last breath no). He wondered sometimes if he would ever cross paths again with Ryder. He could drink with him and laugh and maybe it wouldn't even be a pantomime.
The girl who had glued herself to Cass's side whimpered a little, catching his attention. "Say, who is she anyway?" he asked, quietly. "Noble's daughter? Has to be really rich if he could pay off a group of you to take on these bandits."
As though he'd summoned them by calling their name, a group of bandits rounded the corner at a run, their weapons at the ready. They shouted when they caught sight of the trio, moving towards them in a smooth, well-practiced formation. Honest searched for the telltale gleam of his glaive, but alas it was not to be. There was an itch under his skin, probably because he'd never been separated from his weapon for so long before.
"Dammit," he muttered. "I've only got the four knives on me." Well, there was one reason it was good to work in groups, at least. From what he made out from the carnage downstairs, Cass was more than good enough to take out all of these bandits. The only problem she might have had was keeping the girl alive. But he wasn't a (possibly temporary?) servant for nothing.
"I'll take care of the girl, so you can go for it," he said aloud. And then added, "I mean, if you want," in case his new mistress or whatever thought he was ordering her about. He knew it would've possibly gotten him killed if he'd talked that way to a superior officer back when he was a soldier. His father, a commanding officer, would have probably done it himself for the disrespect and disgrace it would have brought to him. He would have to figure out the protocols of this whole life-debt thing later on. Possibly when there weren't so many hostile enemies around.
Honest pulled the shaking girl away from Cass and a little bit behind him. The girl made a very obvious easy target. When the first couple of bandits rushed in for the attack, one of them got a knife in the neck for their trouble, the other knife grazing the second bandit's arm and sinking into somebody else's thigh. The first one was dead, and it would only take a minute or so for the other two to become completely paralysed before death would claim them. Honest ducked down and kicked the gut of a bandit who was charging him from behind, retrieving his knife from the first bandit in the same movement. Spinning around, he slashed at another bandit's face with the knife and then moved so he could block the sword that swung at him from the side. The swordsman smiled at the slight hiss of pain Honest let out at the shock to his wrist, not noticing the knife that flashed in Honest's other hand until it was too late. His knives were made for throwing, not for slicing, but given the circumstances he would have to try and make do.
A dual cutlass wielding bandit was closing in on the girl, and he had to turn and let his shoulder be sliced open so that he could get within the man's guard and slash at his windpipe. He had to get the girl against a wall, because he wasn't sure he could handle the three-sixty degree onslaught with only his knives. The girl being curled into a little quivering ball on the floor with her hands clasped over her head didn't really help matters either, he had to admit. At least she wasn't hanging onto his leg or something, because that would have been as good as a death sentence. As if being surrounded by a group of professionals while you had a wounded shoulder and you were without your primary weapon on hand and you were defending the most useless lump of a girl in the entire world wasn't close enough. He couldn't say for certain, but he didn't think he'd had anything to eat for over a day, either, and not much to drink.
He smiled, though, because he had one thing going for him. He had Cass on his side. And he was pretty sure she was a demon in disguise.