Tristan lunged at the massive northman, feinting with his shield before lashing at him with an overhead blow. He was rewarded with a howl of pain as the finely honed edge of his longsword bit through fur cloak and mail to the muscled flesh beneath. The second northman, one of the blond men who looked so similar as to be twins, lunged at him from the left, hoping to take Tristan in his blindspot. The young knight twisted his body and felt the attack grate harmlessly against his mailed shoulder.
The northmen were not without skill, but Tristan was a knight with long training on the practice yards and ample time in the field. He took a glance around the taproom of the tavern to survey how his companions were faring. Brandos, dressed in the mail and surcoat of Cardinal Guy de Valin was holding his own against the other two mercenaries. Moments before Ssibliss had darted past their enemies and was now at work to their rear, harrying them with hand axe and flail. As for Kaspar, he was outside of the tavern, launching arcane attacks through the open window.
As if on queue four glowing sparks of red energy came from Kaspar’s location, weaving through the combatants and slamming into the chest of the wild-haired northman with the enormous maul. Once more the man howled in rage. It was a deep, blood-curdling noise and for a split second Tristan hesitated behind his shield. His one-eye grew wide as the man called Tibett, The Vulture began to grow taller, his limbs popping and groaning, his face elongating and his teeth sharpening and growing larger. Course black hair sprouted from every bit of visible skin and deadly-looking claws grew from his thick fingers. Slaver dripped from his wolfish maw and he once more let forth a deep, dreadful howl.
“Great,” Tristan thought to himself as the other three northman let out similar howls and began their own transformations…