Titus cursed under his breath. Just how many of these bastards were there? No time for reverie, he thought. Focus on the fight. Spine strike to the Deep One on Aulus' left flank. Uppercut target at 12 o'clock on rebound swing, follow up with downward strike. Decapitate. There were too many to take on at this rate. They would be overwhelmed within minutes. Titus muttered a single word: '<span style="font-style: italic">Celeritas</span>.'<br/><br/>Many names existed for the power upon which the paladin now called. Celerity. Alacrity. The Quickening. Falcon's Grace. But whatever one called it, the effect was the same. For an infinitesimal sliver of one's personal reserves, the caster gained preternatural speed and reflexes for a brief moment. Ten seconds, perhaps, maybe twelve if one pushed his limits. Any longer would tear muscle fibers and crack bone due to the inhuman speed and forces involved.<br/><br/>Time seemed to stand still. The paladin grinned predatorily, adopting Even Blade's Many Raptors Stance.<span style="font-style: italic">You are the leaf on the wind</span>, his teacher once said.<span style="font-style: italic">Soar. Dodge. Maneuver. Position your targets for the killing strike.</span>He did. Ducking a clumsy right hook, Titus pivoted and hamstrung the offending Deep One, immobilizing it. Continuing his spin, he used his momentum to bash another with his shield, stumbling it back a half-step. A third Deep One. He clinched its arm, pulled it close, and hit it with a pommel strike and knee to the gut, followed by a stomp that broke its knee. He continued the routine on two more Deep Ones before he put an end to the Quickening. His muscles ached with the effort and his lungs were aflame, but the Many Raptors Stance had done its job. Five Deep Ones stood in perfect arrangement for him to administer a coup de grace to each. Five more strikes, five more kills. And suddenly, as Titus impaled the last one, the remaining Deep Ones on his flank went silent.<br/><br/>Titus raised an eyebrow. What could possibly--Oh.<span style="font-style: italic">Oh.</span>Lumbering into view, an impossibly large, heavyset Deep One gurgled and hissed. One blind eye was missing, replaced by a puckered mass of scar tissue. More scars ran down its body, likely inflicted by competitors and foolishly gung-ho fauna of the undercity. It seemed that the Deep One's alpha male had discovered the fight. And it pointed at Titus. The realization hit him. These things weren't mere animals after all. They could issue challenges. They could judge threats. They could<span style="font-style: italic">think</span>.<br/><br/>'Ah, crap.'