Human Golf-Club

Grabbing his human shield by the legs, John Fighter swung him about in a mighty underhanded arc...

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Rope held tightly in hands, John Fighter swung down onto the attacking fey warship and landed squarely in the middle of a trio of archers, squashing one to the deck.

One quick and frenzied skirmish later, the other two human thralls were down, and John raced for the helm. Time was of the essence… every passing second allowed time for the fey ship to drift away from the relative safety of the Lady Jane, and any hope of retreat.

An arrow whizzed past his left shoulder, leaving a fine scratch on John’s armor. Ahead of him, a pair of beefy human thralls charged over the rocking deck, cutlasses at the ready. Behind the thralls, at the helm, a fey marksman knocked another arrow, a steely glint in his alien eyes.

Tough spot.

A wooden bolt sprouted from a thrall’s throat, as if by magic; felling him to the planks, without a sound. Back on the Lady Jane, Knives cooly cocked and reloaded his crossbow; not bad for a fifty-yard shot.

Parrying the remaining thrall’s cutlass, John punched him in the face, rocking his head back and stunning him. Seeing the marksman about to loose another arrow, he grabbed the falling thrall and spun him around, holding him between himself and the marksman; a human meatshield.

No sooner was his impromptu tower-shield in place did a fresh hail of fayre arrows fly towards John Fighter, two sinking deep into the hapless thrall with sickening, meaty thunks. The shield held. John grinned.

Cursing, the fey rushed to sidle crabwise to the edge of the deck, trying to bring John in his sights, yet wherever he moved, John would turn his hapless shield to block him, easily lifting the large thrall and maneuvering him around.

Suddenly, John burst into action, charging towards the marksman, still holding his by now mostly-dead shield. Right before reaching him, in one fluid movement, John heaved his unlucky thrall straight into the air, grabbed him by his ankles, and swung him—underhanded—in what could only be properly described as the perfect golf swing. Head met head, and John’s expert aim was rewarded with a gratifying explosion of blood, brain, teeth, and other viscera.

Tossing his makeshift nine-iron aside, John headed for the helm, pausing but a moment to wipe his face clear of unpleasantries.

Human Golf-Club

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