Duel and Doom
First of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)
Across the bloody field of battle, filled still with the screams of the wounded and the drums of war, you call out an agreement, hoping he speaks the tongue of Orinilu and then you raise a hand for at least those nearest to you to stop fighting you charge. Your foe is not so swift, but coming nearer the man with the fox's tail he exchanges words in a harsh guttural tongue, that of the Yayar kin you assume. So the shaman, for what else could he be, raises a bloody hand and places it on the haft of the lance, setting it alight with black flames from the hart of the iron, a thing of awe and dread.
As Silver's hooves cross though the water and onto the sand, more than two thirds the distance you hear the warriors chanting all around you, a song of courage perhaps, or else one of cursing upon their foes.
Not that it matters, you can barely hear them, you can barely see them. All that is real is the foe before you... the point of the lance darting wit h deadly purpose. Shifting in the saddle you move your shield to catch the blow and Silver moves with you, the practice of many battles and the wisdom new gained together.
It is not enough.
At the last moment the lance shifts in the man's hand and instead of striking the bronze shield it pierces your shoulder and almost tears you out of the saddle. Pain races through you like a thunderbolt and your blood flows free onto the sand to the roaring approval of the raiders.
You take 28 Damage
But still you barely hear them, but still you barely see them. Your own lance is level steady... and it finds his heart, under the shield and through the leather brigantine festooned with the prizes of his conquests the lance passes under his ribs and bursts out of his back in a shower of red. The white elk strikes at Silver with horn and hoof in a blind rage even as your friend answers with his hooves.
Silver takes 5 Damage
It is only as the body slides off your lance onto the hard ground that you realize the mess you are in, surrounded by foes, including at least one magician, and sore wounded.
The bloody lance had passed though your arm and into your side.
"So it is done!" you shout in as loud a voice as you can manage. "Take your dead and bury them in the manner of your fathers. Go from this place and trouble it no longer!"
"We do not bury the dead man of the sea, we let them be taken by the breath of the Heavens," the shaman says in rough but understandable Engur. "Tell me now, do you need healing?"
The words are heavy with hidden meaning, but of what sort you cannot say, perhaps in accepting the aid you would seal yourself as an honorable foe, or mayhap it would be a show of weakness and a sign that whatever warrior wants the mantle of the old chief should avenge himself upon his slayer.
What do you reply?
[] I do need healing and would gladly accept it
[] My own folk can see to me
[] Write in
OOC: This guy was basically designed to be a lance fighter, he was a cavalier like you, but a lot more focused on the lance... but no amount of focus can save one from a lance crit. You did about three times more damage than he had HP after buffs.