"The child has a sword." Eolanthe quite deliberately ignored the "captain." Really, he ought to be demoted at the very least. Lieutenant--no, Ensign, or perhaps Sergeant, whichever rank was lowest, unless there was a rank lower still. Her musings were interrupted by another voice:
"That was stupid," the Blonde Dandy--Vess, was it?--said to Eolanthe. "Picking that up. Don't listen to it." She glowered back at him.
I haven't seen you
doing anything smart lately! she thought, but kept her mouth shut. Arguing with people was generally pointless in her experience, and besides, there was still the matter of being well-mannered. Not that
he understood the concept! First, using the 'M-word' in front of her (but just you watch, the motherfucker would almost certainly be outraged if
she used it!), and now insulting her when
she'd never said anything mean to
him!
Furthermore, not everyone had the luxury of just being born immune to everything. If any echolocating eyeless bat-bear-cavemen turned up, she would be sure to let them gnaw on him for awhile before she came to his rescue with the sword and an 'I-told-you-so.' It would probably only be an inconvenience to him, but it would still serve him right.
No sooner had she turned away from him and hiked her chin with smug comfort in that image, then she found herself face to face with...an army of orcs about to perform a sacrificial rite?
Seriously?! She had only
just picked up the sword, and not even had a proper chance to
play with it master the art of fencing, and now the "captain" was shoving her forward to face charging orcs?
"Kid, get behind us. If one of them goes for you, aim to shove that sword straight into its eye
hard, got it?" That was Zazzy, thus far the only member of their party Eolanthe felt any fondness for. He had acted to protect her in the enturball, and, now he was offering advice (well, "commands" might be more a more accurate interpretation of his tone...) that at least seemed sensible.
Perhaps it was no coincidence that he also had the best name? If she should somehow survive this expedition to Hell, and come to own an especially energetic cat with spiky hair, 'Zazzy' would surely be an appropriate moniker. Or if it was a regal black cat with bright golden eyes, then 'Azazel.' Yes, he had the
two best names among the grownups of their party. Eolanthe certainly wasn't going to name anything 'Vess.' Or 'Caelcrust.' Well, maybe a snail. But it wasn't like she would ever want a pet snail.
Speaking of regal black cats! One of the orcs' intended victims turned out to be the most
beeeee-eauuuuutfiul black panther! Which was odd, because of the way it tore its way out of the sack that it shouldn't have fit into in the first place. But there was no time to wonder about that, or come up with a decent strategy, as the five...no, six!...orcs were getting closer! Of
course Captain Snailcrust ran away. Crashing his airship, killing almost all of his passengers, and now desertion? Big, scary mean cyclops alien, and not even a death-ray eye when they needed one? Hmph!
Zazzy had a crowbar out now, and Vess was looking weaker than anyone who was immune to everything had a right to be. Ducking behind him might not be the best strategy if he
wasn't actually immune to everything, or could only be immune to just so much of everything before everything overwhelmed him. In like manner, she didn't know how much of everything Zazzy would be immune to. A brief flash in her mind's eye of both men falling under the orcish assault, then nothing standing between her and the enemy. So better to face them now, and maybe help?
That was what her rational mind suggested. Her emotions on the other hand, and her hammering heart were more of the opinion that discretion was the better part of valor (though they would have expressed it more in the form of 'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! RUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNN!') Torn between these two inner urgings, Eolanthe froze rather longer than she would have liked, given her self-image as the responsible, clever member of the group. Then a third prompt, unfamiliar:
Charge them! Battle! Glory and honor!
That notion was both so foreign to her way of thinking, and under the current circumstances, ridiculous, that she never considered actually doing it. But it did shake her mind loose long enough to come up with something:
Say something scary to bluff them?
Eolanthe stepped forward and raised the sword high. "BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL!" she shouted.
Grey skulls are scary, aren't they? The sword lit up and flashed impressively, and the orcs halted in their tracks, tilting their heads in dumb confusion.
"Urr?" they said in unison. Their minuscule intellects could not fathom why such a small creature would challenge them in such a manner.
"Koberax?" one of them said.
"Koberax," another replied.
"KOBERAAAAAAX!" they all roared, resuming their charge.
So much for that idea! Eolanthe clenched her teeth to choke back a scream. She would
not be the squealing helpless little girl that the boys would laugh at afterward! If there was to be an afterward.
The sword's grip was warm in her hand, and she felt an instinct: shift to the side of their formation, put one of them between herself and the others. Use speed and maneuverability and small size as advantages, then
sting! Wasps could run off even a strong man... Vess' words of warning came back to her. But if that was the sword talking, it surely knew more about sword-fighting than she did. Like it or not, she was in a sword-fight.
As the orcs drew close, Eolanthe dashed to their left flank, and raised her blade.
Stab him in the eye, hard! Only now that the orc was looming over her did she see just how tall he was. She tried to stab for his body instead (hopefully orcs weren't immune to swords like Zazzy and Vess...), but the slender blade glanced off of the dull grey metal of his interposed shield with a shower of sparks. With a strangled squeak of fear, she ducked under a swipe of his sword.
He raised his arm high, poised to split her in half with a ferocious downward cut.
The armpit!
Eolanthe thrust upward at the exposed flesh with all her strength. The orc cried out in pain, causing Eolanthe to cringe inwardly; but his sword went pinwheeling away instead of cleaving her in two, so there was that. The orc staggered back, trying to clutch at his bleeding armpit, but the fact that his other arm was strapped into his shield made the effort a clumsy one. Then he looked after his departing sword and ran off in pursuit.
She dodged out of his way and tried a back-slash, but that just skittered off his armor--and now there was another orc coming at her! Eolanthe twisted out of the way of a sword thrust that sliced through the billowing folds of her dress, only barely missing her body within. The cold steel of the flat of the blade against her skin sent a chill up her spine.
He pulled back his sword, reading for another assault. He held his shield in front of his body, blocking any attack she could make.
Closer! Eolanthe lunged in, crouching in front of his shield. She tried to stab around it at his legs, but her blade hit one of his greaves.
Aim for the gaps in his armor!
A more capable intellect might have used a shield-bash to knock her away. Not being so equipped, Krognorr thought, 'Where did smallcreature go?' and bent to peer over the lip of his shield.
Stab him in the eye, hard! Eolanthe thought, then followed Zazzy's advice. Her sword's sharp tip pierced through the orc's eye with a gross squish, then through the eye socket, and into the braincase with a muffled crack of bone. Belated reflex made Krognorr lurch away, but now he was convulsing, knees buckling, and prone to topple over in some random and possibly quite inconvenient direction--like right on top of her!
Eolanthe tensed to dodge if he fell her way. Heavy footfalls behind her--the other orc, running at her with his sword held clumsily, blood still streaming from his armpit. Eolanthe let out a yelp, ducked around Krognorr's shield, then through his wobbling legs. Three of the other orcs had continued on to attack Zazzy and Vess, and the fourth had noticed the commotion to his left. His head snapped back and forth: attack the little creature with the glowing sword, or join his fellows against the two men?
Once again, Mr. Croft refused Eolanthe's offer of a gas mask. Turns out it is rather difficult to prove oneself useful to someone who is immune to everything. She did not have a chance to find out if the Blonde Dandy accepted his or not, for the roar of pyroclasm was upon them, and Mr. Croft grabbed her and pressed her against the curved wall of their shelter, protecting her with his body. 
What on earth was a BAC? And was .12 a high decimal or a low one? And was the correct word tolerance instead of toleration?
"Alas, mon Crusty-pan... I didn't anticipate anyone surviving this long."
>~~>
