“Bring it on ya pansies!” Brug shouted, barreling his way into the thieves that rushed to them. “My daggers are bigger, harder, and pack a whole lot more thrust!”

Harruq followed, bellowing out his war cry. Condemnation and Salvation drank in the blood of the closest attacker. Brug smacked away a couple quick thrusts before letting a third purposefully slip through. The dagger struck his hardened platemail and deflected off, making hardly a dent. Brug’s stab, however, had only weak leather to slow it. The wide blade left a gaping hole in the rogue’s chest. Brug punched repeatedly, perforating the thief’s ribcage.

A second attacker snuck around, eyeing a crease in Brug’s armor near the shoulder blade. Brug ducked low when he saw the man circling, and then whirled to face him. He rammed his head into the thief’s groin, then grabbed his legs and lifted him into the air. With a hearty bellow, he slammed them both to the ground, the collision again ramming Brug’s forehead against his groin. Brug scrambled to his feet, inadvertently kneeing him a third time. When his punch daggers stabbed for the throat, there was no resistance.

Qurrah stayed back, watching the fight. The two warriors provided a wall between him and the rogues, one he planned to use well. A rogue slipped past their attack and dashed toward the apparently unarmed half-orc.

“Idiot,” Qurrah said. “ Hemorrhage! ”

The thief felt a tingle in his belly, a tingle that rapidly grew into a raging fire. His skin ruptured, and blood poured forth. The shock of it sent him staggering right into Qurrah’s arms. The half-orc caught him, unafraid of the dagger he still held tight. His pale gray hand clutched the rogue’s throat. His eyes were blue. His hair was blond. They would not stay so. Qurrah hissed the words to a spell. His hand turned vampiric, draining the essence of life. The man’s hair was gray. His eyes were dead.