Jamas swore. No matter how well he understood the usefulnesses of rain, he hated being wet. He hid it as best as possible, but it was the simple truth, and seemed a bad omen, if only for him. He listened carefully to his commander's orders, nodding afterward. He understood the concepts that this battle would be fought upon; he had fought others very similar. Retreats were always important when you were outnumbered, only green fools thought they could end it with a single brilliant clash.
He tightened the grip he had on his spear, holding it the near blade with his left hand, and the middle with his right. He set his feet in a light stance, ready for sudden movement. This would be a conflict that required speed, and he was more then experienced in that. He remarked to himself again that he was lucky that he'd signed up with this group instead of some of the others. Dolosus was the only kind of man that Jamas felt he would be able to follow into such a fight.
He chortled at the thought of him being lucky, with a force more then three times his own bearing down upon him. Well, at least it would be over quickly, if nothing else. Finally, he breathed deeply and began preparing his mind for the bloodlust to come; the lust that would blind him to his pain and his enemies', and carry him through this.
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