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After a brief rest, during which he got his latest injuries patched up, Rob ventured back outside with the intent of tackling more of the bird things. It was becoming something of a routine: go outside, kill a bird, come back in, warm up, get patched up, repeat. Ah, the life of a Chosen.

One good thing that he noticed was he seemed to be getting more comfortable with the greatsword. He had of course had some practice with it back at the Prytaneum, even some one-on-one with others as opposed to just sparring with practice dummies. But it wasn't the same as going up against a live opponent. Truth be told, nothing could have prepared him adequately for this. But if this was what he was Chosen to do (well, that and brew beer), he was glad that he was doing it adequately.

He stepped out into the snow and was almost immediately targeted by one of the bird-monsters. Tightening his hands on the hilt of the greatsword, he waited until the bird was in range, then he raised the weapon and swung hard. First swing, and he connected solidly, the blade leaving a huge gash in the bird's body where it connected with the wing.

With a loud surprised squawk the bird backed off, metallic feathers flying off its wings. One of the feathers caught Rob in the hand, and he yelped, dropping the sword to extract the feather from his flesh. "Ow, rotten b*****d," he muttered grumpily.

To Rob's surprise, the bird still had enough life in it to lunge at him as he was cleaning off the poo. He yelped and tried to back off, but ended up tripping over the long sword and ended up on his a** in the snow. It was now a fight for his life as the gravely wounded bird screeched and threw everything it had remaining at him: bronze beak, talons, feathers, and dung.

With all his strength he managed to shove the creature off and scramble to his feet, making sure to grab his sword and drag it off with him as he got out of range. That would teach him to get cocky.

Rob studied the dead monster for a few moments. He didn't have any interest in picking over the carcass -- at this point, you've seen one dead monster bird-thing, you've seen them all. He did, however, walk over to it and give it a solid kick with his booted foot. "Rotten b*****d."

Still, this was an enlightening fight. He was getting more comfortable and skilled with the greatsword; after all, it had only taken him three blows to kill it. Every hit and miss was being committed to memory, training his body and mind to react without thinking and strike true and hard with the long weapon.

Wiping the blood off the blade, he scooped up some snow and cleaned off the remaining dung, then turned to go back inside to rest and get patched up again.