Shoving backwards and knocking the redcoat off balance, Thomas instantly spun about and stabbed upwards with lethal competence. Unfortunately, he punched nothing but air.
The bloody hell?! The soldier had gone up and disappeared, now nowhere to be found. Hastily looking about, he gaped, genuinely stunned. The Patriots remained fortified behind the wagons, still firing and holding off their enemies. Evidently, not one of them seemed to notice his previous distress.
“What in the fuckin’ hell-?!”
Without warning, the sounds of someone gagging and squirming above him hit his ears. Hand flying to his filched sabre, he halted, gaze shooting upwards.
Oh. Holy. Shit.
The redcoat who evidently had him at the end of the musket but a few seconds ago now dangled in air, roughly fifteen feet from the ground. The other end of the rope hanging him was looped around a heavy branch. Staked securely into the ground and at an angle to the tree, there was no escape. Hands vainly clawing at the rope garroted about his neck, the redcoat’s legs kicked and spasmed in hideous rhythm. Eyes bulging, blood poured from his mouth. But that wasn’t the worst part of it. Somehow, a large, barbed, iron dart was shoved clean through him, exiting just above his sternum.
Thomas had witnessed a whole lot of gruesome antics in his time. But he’d certainly never been privy to this sort of brutal efficiency. It was positively…inventive, if a little on the side of sheer overkill.
A blur of white suddenly sailed past him, right along the canopy of trees and just out the corner of his left eye. Before he could react, it dropped to the other side of the wagons the Continentals continued to defend. Within a few seconds, the sound of steel ringing on steel drifted back towards him.
“Fancy that,” he slowly said to himself. Glancing up again, he grit his teeth at the sight of the redcoat reduced to nothing but a swinging corpse. “Yeah,” he sniffed, “Better go ‘n check it all out,” he muttered. Jogging up the road, he arched a brow at finding the Patriot soldiers no longer behind the wagons. Nonetheless, the sounds of fighting still carried on.
Scooting from around a wagon, he engaged a redcoat preoccupied with reloading his pistol. Running him through from behind, he kicked him off his sabre with a grunt before twisting about to duck a punch from another redcoat behind him. Smashing his forehead into the other man’s, Thomas parried his enemy’s dagger as he tried to gut him. Using the opening, he sliced upwards only to yank his blade down at a grisly diagonal. It carved clean through, from ribs to navel. Screaming as his guts spilled out, the redcoat’s whimpers died within the matter of seconds to a final gasp.
Swiveling around, Thomas saw the white-clad ghost of the forest finish off another redcoat by drawing his dagger across his jugular. Shoving back a second redcoat’s punch, he sent his foot flying into his stomach, only to brutally knee him in the chin. It sent the redcoat to the ground, a bloody mess of flailing limbs. A running kick to the head finished the job. However, the hooded figure didn’t notice the final lobsterback aiming head-on at his back with his flintlock.
“Shot behind ya, mate!” he bellowed.
His apparent ally fluid twirled about. A flash of silver flew from his hand at the same time the shot rang out. Flinching, Thomas narrowed his eyes as the two froze.
The redcoat wheezed, staggered backwards and then promptly collapsed onto the grass. Three throwing knives protruding from his chest indicated his obvious demise. Yet his bullet must have gone wide, for the other man appeared no worse for wear. Rolling his head and cracking his neck for a bit, he strolled over and began collecting his weapons. For the rest of the redcoats were dead.
After ordering Captain Moreau to direct the remaining troops to check for any injured, loot the bodies of the enemy and get the wagons ready to move, Thomas took in the hooded stranger for the first time. Strange, now that he was closer, despite the height, it was rather obvious that this was no man. Not judging by the natural sway of those hips. Nor, the touch of tits along her front. Interesting, that.
Swaggering over, his thoughts were already cooking up all sorts of ways to show cunning lass his appreciation. Preferably, with him between her legs and her desperately panting out his name. Ideally, repeatedly.
“Good’en,” he chuckled, nodding to the remaining Patriot soldiers as he dropped a heavy hand to her shoulder, “Ya helped saved their asses, sweetheart.”
Caught completely off guard as the woman rudely shoved off is hand, he let out a yap of surprise as she twisted around to face him. He’d recognize that mouth and smattering of freckles across her cheeks anywhere. Those devilishly dark eyes were a dead giveaway, no doubt.
“Motherfuckin’ Connor!”
Yep, judging by how she immediately clocked a punch to his gut that sent him doubling over, the little she-wolf knew exactly who he was as well.
Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 10a/?
The bloody hell?! The soldier had gone up and disappeared, now nowhere to be found. Hastily looking about, he gaped, genuinely stunned. The Patriots remained fortified behind the wagons, still firing and holding off their enemies. Evidently, not one of them seemed to notice his previous distress.
“What in the fuckin’ hell-?!”
Without warning, the sounds of someone gagging and squirming above him hit his ears. Hand flying to his filched sabre, he halted, gaze shooting upwards.
Oh. Holy. Shit.
The redcoat who evidently had him at the end of the musket but a few seconds ago now dangled in air, roughly fifteen feet from the ground. The other end of the rope hanging him was looped around a heavy branch. Staked securely into the ground and at an angle to the tree, there was no escape. Hands vainly clawing at the rope garroted about his neck, the redcoat’s legs kicked and spasmed in hideous rhythm. Eyes bulging, blood poured from his mouth. But that wasn’t the worst part of it. Somehow, a large, barbed, iron dart was shoved clean through him, exiting just above his sternum.
Thomas had witnessed a whole lot of gruesome antics in his time. But he’d certainly never been privy to this sort of brutal efficiency. It was positively…inventive, if a little on the side of sheer overkill.
A blur of white suddenly sailed past him, right along the canopy of trees and just out the corner of his left eye. Before he could react, it dropped to the other side of the wagons the Continentals continued to defend. Within a few seconds, the sound of steel ringing on steel drifted back towards him.
“Fancy that,” he slowly said to himself. Glancing up again, he grit his teeth at the sight of the redcoat reduced to nothing but a swinging corpse. “Yeah,” he sniffed, “Better go ‘n check it all out,” he muttered. Jogging up the road, he arched a brow at finding the Patriot soldiers no longer behind the wagons. Nonetheless, the sounds of fighting still carried on.
Scooting from around a wagon, he engaged a redcoat preoccupied with reloading his pistol. Running him through from behind, he kicked him off his sabre with a grunt before twisting about to duck a punch from another redcoat behind him. Smashing his forehead into the other man’s, Thomas parried his enemy’s dagger as he tried to gut him. Using the opening, he sliced upwards only to yank his blade down at a grisly diagonal. It carved clean through, from ribs to navel. Screaming as his guts spilled out, the redcoat’s whimpers died within the matter of seconds to a final gasp.
Swiveling around, Thomas saw the white-clad ghost of the forest finish off another redcoat by drawing his dagger across his jugular. Shoving back a second redcoat’s punch, he sent his foot flying into his stomach, only to brutally knee him in the chin. It sent the redcoat to the ground, a bloody mess of flailing limbs. A running kick to the head finished the job. However, the hooded figure didn’t notice the final lobsterback aiming head-on at his back with his flintlock.
“Shot behind ya, mate!” he bellowed.
His apparent ally fluid twirled about. A flash of silver flew from his hand at the same time the shot rang out. Flinching, Thomas narrowed his eyes as the two froze.
The redcoat wheezed, staggered backwards and then promptly collapsed onto the grass. Three throwing knives protruding from his chest indicated his obvious demise. Yet his bullet must have gone wide, for the other man appeared no worse for wear. Rolling his head and cracking his neck for a bit, he strolled over and began collecting his weapons. For the rest of the redcoats were dead.
After ordering Captain Moreau to direct the remaining troops to check for any injured, loot the bodies of the enemy and get the wagons ready to move, Thomas took in the hooded stranger for the first time. Strange, now that he was closer, despite the height, it was rather obvious that this was no man. Not judging by the natural sway of those hips. Nor, the touch of tits along her front. Interesting, that.
Swaggering over, his thoughts were already cooking up all sorts of ways to show cunning lass his appreciation. Preferably, with him between her legs and her desperately panting out his name. Ideally, repeatedly.
“Good’en,” he chuckled, nodding to the remaining Patriot soldiers as he dropped a heavy hand to her shoulder, “Ya helped saved their asses, sweetheart.”
Caught completely off guard as the woman rudely shoved off is hand, he let out a yap of surprise as she twisted around to face him. He’d recognize that mouth and smattering of freckles across her cheeks anywhere. Those devilishly dark eyes were a dead giveaway, no doubt.
“Motherfuckin’ Connor!”
Yep, judging by how she immediately clocked a punch to his gut that sent him doubling over, the little she-wolf knew exactly who he was as well.