Grath moved like an avalanche given arms, carving a path through huts and panicked lizardmen, not subtle, not careful, but effective.
Every swing made something collapse, door frames, weapon arms, ribs, whatever occupied the space where his axe wanted to be.
Ludwig turned his head to see a healthy-looking champion rushing toward them with armor that was not fully tightened on his body; he was in a hurry to put it on. The straps hung loose and crooked, the lizardman's fingers fumbling at buckles as he ran, trying to become "ready" while already too late. Little that it mattered, Ludwig came to his side fast.
The champion raised his spear with both hands and went for a stabbing motion, too predictable. Ludwig sidestepped and swung his weapon hard.
