Pitcher was trembling from sole to crown. He hadn't been this scared in recent memory. Fear. Fear washed through him. So much so that when he went to draw Devilsbane, his hand wouldn't pull the sword free of its sheath. Here was Pitcher, the devil of the South Flags, trembling in fear. Although in truth, it wasn't all that surprising. 

Even during his early years, he had learned to distinguish between when he was in battle and when he wasn't. No one had taught him to do so, but watching his fellow mercenaries and the way they acted, gave him the feeling that if he didn't create a discrepancy between violence and peace in his mind, he would end up like them. When Pitcher didn't have to fight, he had been a generally timid and introverted child, sitting around reading whatever books he could get his hands on. So when it came to battle, he was rarely ever scared. 

But in the moments when fear would take hold completely, he would be stopped senseless in his tracks. He had coined the term: Battle fright. Over the years he had learned to reign in his battle fright. He found out through experience that the only way to counter this subliminal fear that would root him to the spot was to -

MOVE! his mind shouted at him, his eyes fixed on the hunk of solid metal crashing down, not even two meters above. The beast loomed ever-present, towering high above Pitcher, blocking out the sun, casting shadows in the daylight, its smile sending shivers down the spines of any who dare watch. MOVE! GODDAMNIT! Pitcher's hazy conscience screamed, barely aware of the other guards who were sprawled out around or running away from the falling sword. Deflect it. Just deflect it. . . come on Pitcher! Draw your sword! People are going to die! It's your fault if they die! Damnit Pitcher, just DRAW YOU'RE FUCKING SWORD! DRAW IT! DR -

He dodged. His thoughts shut off for a moment as instinct took hold and his legs moved of their own accord. He flung himself to the side, crashing headfirst into the crimson snow. It took a moment for him to register what had happened as he shook snow out of his slightly damp hair. Stumbling to his feet, Pitcher caught sight of where the sword had struck the ground. The mangled bodies of two guards were seen carelessly torn in two, blood pouring out steadily from where their bodies separated as they spasmed in their last moments, surely regretting dying so unceremoniously. The others had managed to flee, abandoning all hope, the Riplyvil guard turned tail and ran. 

Within the next heartbeat the creature had turned the blade sideways and slashed horizontally, directly at where Pitcher had just stood up. Pitcher saw the blade's trajectory slowly close in on him as his hand finally tightened on Devilsbane. It barely cleared the sheath before Pitcher dashed forward towards the oncoming blade, dropping his rear leg and skidding low to the ground. Devilsbane poised directly above his head scraped hard against the dull metal of the monster's blade as Pitcher cleared the swing. Purple tendrils of lledrith diffused from the contact point of the two swords. Pitcher launched to his feet, pirouetted and stared those soulless, white eyes down. 

Horrible memories threatened to resurface. The look in the beast's eyes hadn't changed in all these years. No. No, they had changed. There was a hint of excitement in the monster's eyes. A slight eagerness that was missing the last time they had dueled. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Pitcher saw Emily and Sylli, still tied up, struggling furiously against their captors. The sight of their insistence to go quietly amused Pitcher. When was the last time hostages fought back and survived? But it was admirable. They're better than me in every right. Pitcher smiled as the battled lulled for a few seconds. His entire body was shivering at the thought of going toe to toe with the beast in front of him. But what else am I going to do? I'll fight. I'll fight for their sakes, If I die then so be it but devil take me if i don't keep them alive. 

He sent his mind back to his previous duel with the beast in front of him, the duel at whimpering heights, where he had won, just barely and that too with a lot of help. How did we beat him the last time? I don't even remember. Pitcher turned his head to the sky and smiled. Ah. . . whatever.

He dashed, kicking up snow and dust. Covering the distance between the beast and him within two palpitations of a racing heart. Devilsbane leaked more tongues of lledrith as the streak of purple shot forward. He aimed for the beast's Achilles tendon, hoping to render movement. Failure to do so was eminent the moment Pitcher saw its foot shift. Pitcher sidestepped to avoid the kick he knew was coming, just to be safe he extended his dodge into a roll, just in time for the beast's kick to ruffle the edge of his cloak as it turned to face Pitcher again. The third exchange had ended with no damage being done to either party. 

Then the demon man struck, bringing a blow crashing down onto Pitcher who parried and ran in for a quick nick. This time he struck flesh. Devilsbane did most of the work as he tore out a decent gash in the creature's calf muscle. The beast roared, dropped to one knee but it didn't stop its attack. Pitcher had expected this but not how it would attack. The demon man swiveled its upper body and used the momentum to bring its hand down onto the snowy ground onto the corpse of a random guard. In the same motion, the beast threw the body at Pitcher who was trying to go in for another slash. 

Pitcher saw the blood splash through the air as the crushed corpse of the man came flying at him. Without having time to think, Pitcher slashed upwards and through the body, only to be met by the sword of the demon man being thrusted at his face. He deflected the attack so close to his face that the bumps and nicks on the flat side of the giant blade made small cuts across his cheek.

Without flinching, Pitcher went in past the extended arm of the beast and swung his sword at the elbow joint. It anchored but didn't cut flesh, so Pitcher lifted his feet off the ground and grabbing the hilt with both hands, shoved his whole body weight into that single slash. And it got something done. Viscous, red blood spurted out of the first deep cut into the monster's thick skin. 

Pitcher decided to be greedy and went in for the exposed ankle against his better judgement and the beast swatted him away like a fly. He was sent tumbling over and over into the snow. blood dripped from his lip and nose as he rolled to his feet. His lips curved into a smile as he noticed that the beast was also in pain. They were at a standstill when suddenly he pictured whimpering heights. Hopelessness, loss and pain were important experiences on that day. He remembered where the sword had been lodged that day to bring the demon man down. But Mallen would have thought of that

Slowly, they circled each other. The demon man's smile was gone. It winced in pain occasionally. Pitcher grimaced. The effect of using all those bursts of speed was that his legs got tired really fast. Aches spread all over his leg and arms. Just trying to block this beast's attacks was like stopping a rolling boulder. He would be cautious this time. And he would win.

Pitcher began running forward and sidestepping just before he came within striking range. He played it as safe as possible and continued to wear the beast down. Scoring small, occasional cuts while dealing some of his own. This slowly depletion of the monster's stamina was working well enough, though it had the effect of tiring out Pitcher. He still didn't have a plan. 

In this way, the two of them exchanged blow after blow, each more furious than the last. The snow around their dancing feet had melted or been kicked aside. Each time their swords made contact purple sparks would fly. So fast were some of the movements that on occasion, Pitcher would seem like a black blur, darting around a beast three times his size. In his mind Pitcher knew that a single proper slash or cut from the demon man would easily kill him, regardless of bodily strengthening. 

Their dance had been going on for a few minutes when Pitcher began to see it, an opening. He had to be beyond fast. A single wrong move could easily spell death. The beast was prone to turning his sword flat and parallel to the ground. Pitcher could exploit this. He knew the risk, he knew the reward. He finalized his actions and gave it all towards victory. 

Adrenaline coursed through him. His eyes became fixed points, tracing every movement of his opponent. He stood still, so did time and space. Then he dashed, rocketing forward, with Devilsbane poised behind him. He muscles screamed and his feet protested but his mind held firm. He saw the beast aim its sword for a forward thrust. His coin materialized in his free fist as it usually did. His left eye glowed with translucent, purple lledrith. Then the thrust happened.

Sidestepping it, Pitcher vaulted onto the blade, and danced along it before launching himself into the air where he pirouetted and came down onto the bewildered demon man's face. He threw the coin, wherein it made contact with the beast's face. The sound of its skull cracking was heard across the battlefield as the devil of the South Flags brought his sword down onto the beast's 'nose,' tearing open the softer flesh of the nostril, anchoring himself hilt deep in the face of a demon.

Their eyes met for a moment. Microseconds in which hearts beat. The devil and demon stared each other in the face. Disgust, pain and defeat were plainly visible on the beast's face. Pitcher's face revealed nothing. Unfeeling, uncaring. He stared into the whites of the monster's eyes and saw fear staring him back. 

Then he rocketed back off, wrenching Devilsbane free of the beast's nasal cavity. Stray lledrith diffused again and Pitcher landed on all fours, rising back to his full height as his cloak and hair were ruffled by a passing wind. Strolling forward, Pitcher calmly approached the roaring beast who's face had been badly mangled by Pitcher's extrication of the sword. One final push. . . he thought, as he dashed forward and did what he had intended to at the start of the battle. His blade caught flesh above the creature's hairy heel, and Pitcher dragged the sword in a curved motion, severing the Achilles tendon before replicating the motion on the other foot. 

The beast crashed to the ground, still alive but barely able to stand. Pitcher turned to finish it off. End this demon man who had haunted him in dreams and memories, the demon man who he had finally defeated on his own. But as it turned out, that's not how it ended up going. 

Before he could figure out how to deliver the coup de grâce, a sudden commotion happened. The sound of magic falling in on itself. Pitcher remembered the whole reason he was fighting, the girls! He flicked his head to were they had been, along with Mallen, and noticed the source of the commotion; the portal. It was definitely malfunctioning. 

Tendrils of green lledrith was spewing out of the portal borders and a loud vacuuming, suctioning sound was heard. Many of Mallen's men were attempting to keep the portal at bay. Mallen himself was no where to be seen. As Pitcher watched, the portal began swelling and diminishing in erratic spasms of magic. In the midst of all of this, his eyes found Emily. She was writhing on the ground. A tongue of magic passed close to her head and she screamed faintly. 

Without a look back, Pitcher raced to where Emily was. Kicking up snow, his lungs were about to burst due to how much he had exerted himself. Loud, gasping breaths escaped him as he closed the distance, stumbling repeatedly. 

"EMILY!" he screamed as he neared her. It caught her attention and also that of the mercenaries. Figuring he would have a fight on his hands, he gripped Devilsbane firmly. He didn't dare use another burst of speed. One more and he would probably collapse from exhaustion. 

From behind her, Pitcher saw a few of the mercenaries directing orders and pointing at him. He cast his eyes to the roofs surrounding them and saw most of the mercenaries missing. Flashes of light and spellfire were beginning to be heard from behind the other buildings. The museum was suddenly rife with sound and commotion. What is even happening. . . ?

Emily screamed. Pitcher saw the mercenaries closing in on her. He was a few meters away. He couldn't make it in time. The portal was close to the skirmish. He had an idea. It was a dumb idea. But options were scarce. As he reached Emily, his coin materialized, tackling Emily with one hand, he chucked the coin at the portal with the other.

The portal screeched and lost its circular shape, exploding to massive proportions. Green lledrith diffused at astonishing rates. A searing heat was felt and the snow around melted rapidly. The searing blob of erratically spasming magic began licking at nearby mercenaries. The mercenaries were focused on Pitcher and Emily, who had gotten to their feet and had their backs to the portal. Emily's hands were untied and Pitcher was about die of exhaustion. Then the mercenaries threw a spell at them.

Pitcher lunged forward to deflect it, but a hand grabbed his wrist and dragged him backwards, towards the portal. As he fell back towards it, Pitcher saw Emily poise her palms and fire off a spell as the green lledrith enveloped the two of them. 

There was a loud artificial screech, the screaming of men and the feeling of all sound and sense escaping his body as Pitcher along with Emily, fell into the unforgiving nothingness.