𝕱yodor felt the searing agony of an arrow tearing through his flesh, lodging itself deep into his leg. The bastard found himself assailed by the deafening crumble of Breakwater, the moan of a fallen nameless man clutching at a gash, likely the cause of his demise. Fyodor dragged himself from the courtyard, a mess of bodies, ruble, and melee, to the the edge of the now defunct moat, as it had become a receptacle for cruor and carrion. He began his descent when he heard a thunderous collision, the last of the ongoing barrage, hitting the nearby gatehouse. The structure collapsed upon itself. Fyodor peered towards his leg, ichor fluid pooling around the puncture. From the dust of the collapse came a figure, bearing the crest of the enemy. It pounced upon him, drawing a dagger and grasping at Fyodor's hair. The bastard grappled at the assailants arm, pushing the dagger westward with all his might, although it was turned back towards him shortly after, the glistening ferrum but a mere inches from his eye.
The audible puncture of skin and flesh was the only thing Fyodor could hear, blood spilling and pooling at his chin. A blade had found it's way into the neck of the attacker, the blade belonging to a certain Andrik Uldarik. Without a word, he reached a gloved hand towards Fyodor, helping him to his feet, where he would place an arm around his bastard friend, helping him down into the moat. Fyodor, shortly after, found himself lead from the lost Middelan keep, through the forest flanking Veletz, coming to rest at a certain calm little tower at the edge of the Druscan countryside.
The duo signed a two-barred cross, coming to rest at the base of the structure. "I vould have niet survived." The bastard huffed, strained a coarse from dust and rubble. "Da. That is what I am here for." Replied Andrik. "Do niet forget."
Fyodor Kovachev never forgot.