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The horrors outside, were nothing compared to the sight young Ferran faced when he entered the deepest room of the tomb.The final resting place of the saint Sir Montard, were far from sacred these days as glyphs burned brightly in a sickly green light along the walls.There was no touch of the Lady’s blessing in this forsaken tomb, as Ferran with is sword drawn stood face to face with the owner of the tomb. “By the Lady.” Ferran managed to whisper, as his eyes rested upon the cursed form of the vilest of enemies.Despite time and wear, the fleur de’lys was visible on the aging tunic that hung loosely over the glistening suit of heavy armour, worn by the Tomb lord. “The Lady has no power here, mortal.” The Tomb Lord said, with a perfect bretonnian accent, as it wrapped its hand around the hilt of the intricate liquid like sword by its side. The two, stood at opposite ends of the crypt and watched each other in silence. The dead and the living, both with swords ready, were like the mirror image of each other. When Ferran made the slightest of moves, the Tomb Lord countered. Fear slowly began to take hold of his body, and Ferran found he could not bring himself to attack. A slight shiver in his knees soon turned into aching joints and his sword once more seemed to gain weight. The Tomb Lord laughed, mocking the pride and honour of the Bretonnian knight as it, with the speed of a mountain lion, charged. The sword cut through the air, leaving a trail like it cut through water, and Ferran could do nothing but await his impending doom. A loud metallic ring echoed in the crypt as blade meet blade. In surprise, Ferran watched as he had managed to raise his blade to block the attack. His muscles strained, as he now had to fight to keep his own blade up to fend off the Tomb Lord’s. The Tomb Lord pushed, and Ferran found he had to give ground. With a quick step backwards, he managed to cause enough room to manoeuvre but once again, the Tomb Lord countered with another charge.
The lethal dance, like the dances at the court, had one that lead, one that followed and Ferran found himself acting the woman of this dance, as he followed and blocked the attacks. As in the battle waged outside, Ferran began to suffer under the stress of fighting in a suit of armour and with each attack his own block came slower. ’I am really going to die down here. I do not wish to die, think Arthur, think.’ A biting pain, took Ferrans mind back to the fight at hand. He glanced down to his left and saw a deep gash in his tunic, and the surrounding areas quickly turned red as it soaked up the blood from his wound. Barely able to gather his thoughts, Ferran stumbled backwards as he saw the Tomb Lord’s blade soar towards him once again. In desperation, the young knight moved his own blade to intercept. ’I’m going to die, Lady save me, this is it.’ The sound of metal against metal rang once again, but this time Ferran was not able to muster enough stop the Tomb Lord’s blade. Again, pain filled Ferrans every fibre and his vision swam as the blow cut over the left side of his face. The metallic tang of blood filled his mouth as he stumbled backwards once more, and this time only the wall behind him saved him from falling to the floor. ’Oh Lady I’m going to die.’ He was everything through a red veil, and every form seemed to swirl in and out focus. By reflexes, he raised his sword once again and felt the force from the Tomb Lords attack as he by sheer luck had managed to, partially, block the blow once again. The tip of the foul Lords blade cut into his chest and split his chain mail as if it was a piece of parchment. With cuts and scrapes, Ferran could feel his life slowly seeping out. His body coated in blood and sweat under his armour, and now he had to force himself to lift his sword. Pressed against the wall, Ferran could imagine the grin on the Tomb Lords face as he savoured every moment of this torment, and in this game, he was the mouse trapped under the cats claws. ’Someone, help me...'
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