The moment those iron gates finished opening, the plaza imploded into chaos with all the elegance of a tavern brawl thrown into an alchemical explosion.
The Man in White's neat little parade turned into a storm, his orderly forces surging forward like floodwaters, clashing headlong into the Sun Cult's bleach-robed zealots. Steel screeched, voices howled, and blood instantly decided it had been waiting far too long to make its entrance onto the cobblestones.
Somewhere amid that opening cacophony, the Lady of Fang's dreary recruits, pale and listless, stumbled in with all the energy of corpses trying to remember what muscles were for, and promptly became battering rams in the Man in White's favor.
Now, most men in my position would have chosen the noble tactic of hiding behind the nearest overturned cart and reconsidering all their life choices.
I, on the other hand, am blessed with an almost terminal case of hubris and an unfortunate fondness for theatrics.
