At the outskirts of the Veyr tribe, Beherath stalked, boots trudging easily through the snow. His tusks brushed against his lips, steam rolling out of his mouth as he scanned past the fleeing pale blue-skinned people.
One of his master's mates was here.
Viktor.
Tightening his grip around the shaft of his halberd, he was just about to continue moving when he sensed something.
SLASH.
A figure flashed past him so fast it might as well have been nothing. But it was.
The next second, he felt a faint sting on the back of his neck. He reached there and paused when he felt a warm wetness.
Blood.
'Interesting.' He thought to himself as every instinct went into full gear.
The blur came at him again—left, to right, then from above him. This time he didn't leave any room for another hit, parrying the attacks aimed at the parts of his body uncovered by armour.
At one point he saw an opening in his attacker's movements.
