Valhalla was no fighter, and that was obvious in the way he tried to fight and fend off Wolframite. He winced and let out a yelp when Wolframite punched him in the side, below the increasingly useless chestplate. The mail under his tunic was good at stopping sharp objects from penetrating, but a blow from a fist or blunt object would still leave bruises.

But Wolframite was willing to help him, to train him, to try and help him survive. He didn’t want to let him down. He didn’t want Wolframite to think of him as a waste of time.

And so, he fought back, trying to guard his sides while attacking and watching his weak points and trying to duck away from his attacks, until finally, out of breath, Valhalla grabbed hold of the compass tied to his belt. A beam of green light shot from it, reversing Wolframite’s latest punch as Valhalla stumbled backwards, huffing and wincing.

“You’ve got a mean kick,” he groaned, rubbing at his side.

Moon Kitsune