Hormud crouched behind the dense thicket and swore into a week’s thickness of beard.
“Ape-thing,” he snapped at the twisted man crawling feebly through the water beside him, “ are your monkey hands too weak to snap off an arrow?”
He held out his arm, making the arrow head pushing through the flesh of his shoulder apparent.
“No. What use is pulling the arrow?”, he whined into the muck, “Your shit-eating kin are behind us-”
“A thorn’s curse upon the treacherous animals, I hold an empty hand in friendship and they answer me by biting it.”
“-and in front of us,” he pulled himself into a ball, pressing against the sharp thicket as arrows whisked through the grass, “the High Air.”
The young barbarian hissed through his teeth and sat down beside the man “You sorcerers are a pitiful breed to fear the magic you make.”
He set his mud caked fingers upon the arrow head, “I make my own magic”, the arrow tore through him and out in a spatter of gore, his eyes never leaving the sorcerer’s, “and I do not fear it.”.