"Wow, you guys look like villains."
Frieren's voice was light—as if floating above the tumult—and yet it caused several of those men, accustomed to challenging the living, to take a step back. It wasn't contempt; it was recognition. Frieren had seen it so many times: the moment when the comedy of a ragtag band met its end in the face of a coherent force.
Rogue let the blade rest on the board, his smile receding into what could only be called cold professionalism. "Villains are best when they have a name that scares. Do you have a name?"
The brute with the axe, the one who had spoken first, cleared his throat. "Silver Talons. We… we are the Talons."
