Your smile widens. You've made your choice and you believe your tribe would be proud. You swing your sandled foot directly into Sir Roland and, due to its massive size, several of his men. They fly a few footmeasures and land with a disastrous crash. Most who survive attempt to flee, thier morale in shambles, but about six brave your might and try to stab, poke and cut at you. If they break your thick skin, you don't feel it. You swiftly bring your feet down upon them uncaringly. You are rewdarded with satisfying crunches as their feeble bones crack and compact beneath your gargantuan tread. You feel delightfully invincible.Blood drips from your leather sole as you bear down upon the abandoners. They are scared, frantic and clumsy in their heavy(to them, of course)rockskin, so it doesn't take you long to catch them. The fall upon each other and scream and swipe at the air with their tiny Smallstuff weapons in terror as your shadow cools them.You bring your hands down and scoop them up. As you bring them before your beaming face, a few fall or jump to their doom, splattering on the ground below you. Those remaing throw down thier weapons in surrender. A strong feeling of sadistic glee fills you as you mill over what to do with the weaklings.
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