Pierre stood there, as Sir Georges and the Dark Lord walked towards each other, and he shivered. His cloak was ragged, and too thin to boot--it could not keep the wind off his back. All he could do is pray to Uriel and Jehuel for warmth, and for perhaps Ophiel to not blow so fiercely, and so cold. Pray, and hoped the Gods listened.
Pierre shivered again, and decided to pray a bit harder.
Sir Georges slashed forward at the Dark Lord, only for the Erl to swiftly duck out of the way. Georges gave a snarl, and chopped with his blade. Again the Dark Lord weaved gracefully out of his way.
“You look a bit cold,” noted a voice at his shoulder. Pierre turned to see the old-timer, standing there.
Pierre turned back to watch the fight. He’d developed a strong suspicion that the old-timer was, his claims to the contrary, a rather questionable individual, and thus tried to avoid talking to him when possible. “The Seven will keep me warm,” he stated icily.
“Well, if They need some help, I’ve got a spare blanket,” noted the old-timer.
“That is blasphemy,” spat out Pierre. “You are saying blasphemy.”
“Right,” said the old-timer. “By suggesting that a blanket might keep you better than appealing to the Seven Lords of Creation to take time out of Their busy schedules to warm up your sorry behind. What a mad blasphemer am I.” He regarded the fight. “Well--this is a joke…”
Pierre gave a fervent nod. “The cowardly Dark Lord has yet to draw his blade.”
“Exactly,” said the old-timer. “Sir Georges is completely out of his depth. Cthonique’s toying with him--showing how little he fears the man.” He shook his head. “Something tells me when the Black Dragon draws his sword, this will be finished.”
Pierre turned on the old man. “And now you add sedition to your blasphemy!”
The old-timer rolled his eyes. “Of course.” He leaned forward. “Listen to me--I can understand if your nervous, and perhaps a little guilty, but you have to trust me on this. If you want to survive, you have to take care of yourself, especially as the armigers and the Eremites have made it clear that they aren’t going to do it themselves. This siege has been sheer butchery of men…”
“More lies and treachery,” muttered Pierre, turning back to the fight. Sir Georges’ stabs were coming quickly now, and the Dark Lord continued to nimbly dodge them. “I close my ears to you, sir.”
The old-timer nodded. “Your choice.” He moved away then, humming that strange little song of his.
Pierre kept his eyes fixed on the fight.