Граф Орлов
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Sweat stings his eyes, and his mind is lost in a haze of rage. He can barely see Iliman, only the slight pain from the blows of the Welfern sword tells him where to direct his attacks. Step and strike, step and strike, Iliman's pathetic attempts to harm him are like mosquito bites. Step and strike. He would have split the brat's helmet in two if he had hit. Mosquito bites. It doesn't hurt, but he feels his movements slowing down. He coils up, like a spring, the colossal pressure of accumulated rage is capable of tearing him apart from within. Step and strike, steel dents steel, and Iliman lies on the ground.
-- Ugh, -- Ushumgall sways back and forth in silence for half a minute, regaining his composure. -- That was tough. Let's continue.
-- Ugh, -- Ushumgall sways back and forth in silence for half a minute, regaining his composure. -- That was tough. Let's continue.
E si sui vius, er mi grans benananza,
e si ieu muoir, er mi grans deliuriers
e si ieu muoir, er mi grans deliuriers