*Crash, clang!* Augh..!

Draxen shot up from the bed, only one eye opening, the other glued shut with sleep. More clashing noises could be heard outside the barracks. Training? Damn, he missed training.

"Kill Him!! --N..no, not that one, THAT one!"

Draxen's eye(s) widened. Hanse's voice. Uncle's voice.

Draxen was half in uniform, and half in some makeshift pajamas. grabbing his trademark scythe from under the bed, and strapping an unnecessarily large analog sword to his back, he stumbled to the door. Opening it, he looked out of the third-floor barracks. Vesperians and brigand-looking folk battled fiercely, and it looked like it had been going on for some time, for both Vesper and unidentified corpses littered the floor. As he was about to desend, a rather large, yet scantily-armored man sidestepped into the doorway, wielding not a weapon, but a large burlap sack -- a pillager. Draxen and this large man locked eyes for a moment. Hanse's voice rang clear in his head. 'Shoot first, then shoot again. Asking questions is optional.' Moments later, Draxen was down the steps, and two-halves of a man lay in the barracks.

Vesper smelled of Sulfur and Blood. One thing the young soldier didn't have was a clear head in battle. Anyone not wearing Vesper garb got assaulted by Draxen, swinging large blades in whatever manner his arms would allow. Let it be counted that twice Draxen was saved by a random energy bolt, and three Brigands he finished off.

The spells stopped. The metal stopped ringing. Draxen's arms felt tired, but he caught sight of his relatives, and smiled. They were alive. He had trained himself to recognize leaders quickly by voice (or, at least, was in the process of doing so). He heard what he thought was Olk's voice direct the surviving Vesperians toward the graveyard. Without hesitation, he joined the (now smaller) group of militiamen and jogged toward the Graveyard.

This battle would be quicker. It was as if fatigue was not a factor for Vesper. Like a storm, flashes of red-and-bronze set into the rabble of resting vagabonds. The young soldier's only regret was that it didn't last longer. Like a hound, Draxen set on any of the enemies that his uncle blasted, as if they had been marked and must die.

Much quicker now, Draxen saw only unrecognizable corpses. The spells stopped. The metal stopped. But the cheering continued. As the group returned to 'home', he could swear he heard a random voice chime in..

"Well, two out of three ain't bad."