It was hard going through the forest, which he was not used to -- a low branch here, an upturned root there, spots of mud hidden by leaves -- but once they reached the edge and stared down into the battle below, all sense of fatigue was lost. Thought would fly away, and so would feeling, and leave only training. Energy. Motion. Fury. Fury for everything bottled up and unspoken, like the unrelenting forward motion of a river.
Rhocanth flew through the grass, sword raised high. He did not expect anyone to follow, except perhaps the sergeant. His goal was to throw himself into the fray, hard, and break up the line, pull attention to himself so that the mage had time to tend to the winded or wounded, including the damsel if it could be managed. A roar clawed out from his throat. A wave of satisfaction rode his nerves when flesh and bone crunched against the battering ram of his shield, the tip of a bandit's chin knocked back and a glorious crackle spilling from his neck. The bandit went over onto his back and Rhocanth was on him, blade shrieking in the air without rhythm or caution.