<div class="floatleft">(http://www.dfwd20.com/photopost/data/522/medium/Human_Fighter1.jpg)</div><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: edwardian;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 2.65em;">Alfreic Slate, Soldier</span></span><br/><em>In Combat; HP 18 (Current 14)</em><br/></strong><hr/><strong>OOC:</strong>Mr. Slate will finish off the guard.<br/><br/>1d20+9 (+5 ATK + 4 from soldier being prone = 15); damage = 1d8+4 = 6.<br/><hr/><br/>When the Falcovnian asked him for mercy, Alfreic laughed, clutching the open wound at his hip all the while.  He looked as if he was emerging from his frenzy in an exhausted state, and he peered down at the armored soldier with a great deal of disdain.<br/><br/>"You do not seem to understand," started Alfreic, almost out of breath.   "I do not dole out mercy.  I am an agent of retribution, and retribution must never let up.  Do you understand this?"  There was a glint in his eye.   "You must understand it.  Your occupation's nightmare is the retribution of the righteous.  It haunts you, and chases you, and when it finds you, you cannot escape it.  This is what it is.  There is no escape.  Be a man.  Die like a man."<br/><br/>And again, he lifted his sword upwards, bringing it down upon the one-armed man.  He did this over and over, as long as it took, bearing his sword down upon the last soldier with sordid joy.  Even when the man's life was spent, Alfreic continued mauling the man-- or what was left of him-- until his brains and his skull were mere paste in the grass.<br/><br/>The woman had been ignored.<br/><br/>