There’s a doombat on my head. Trying to sip my blood like a cheap wine. This was the extent of Javmaster Cormorant’s thought as the Transylvito scout unit nibbled at his leather helmet. Cor was not used to this. His normal fighting style involved flying over at the enemy at top speed, throwing javelins left and right, and drawing his sickle-sword when those ran out. Now, the enemy was a cloud of little doombats with only one objective: Drink him drier than a Trazzian sun raisin. Cor was just an Ibyssian corporal, a level 4! He had been trained to fight the largely ground-based enemies of Ibyssinia, not these air-heavy emos.
Each javelin took out five doombats, but ten more soon replaced them. Having no idea what to do about the doombat on his head, Cor simply kept stabbing at the ones trying to bite less protected areas. Like his Cokkatwice’s flanks. The two-headed winged tiger was having a ball, all the free rations it could eat, coming in as fast as it could munch them. All the way down the Cokkatwice’s body, a set of studded-leather armor kept Jim, the playful left head, and Gordon, the calm right head, free of Doombat bites. However, directly behind the wing-joints, there was an exposed portion for the rider’s legs, so that he or she could use the stirrups on their steed properly. It was this area that Cor busied himself with clearing of doombats, ignoring the increasing pressure that meant his head would be on the menu next.