Twice, I am forced to fight. Once to take down a single crazed Sextus who seems to have run far ahead of his comrades. Bloodlust lights his eyes, a fierce grin on his face as he chases terrified Octavii past the darkened alley where I hide. I almost let him go too, but can’t. My armour disintegrates into a cloud of spinning metal blades that I send at his back. His dying screams haunt me as I stumble on, ignoring the grateful shouts of the men and women I leave in my wake.
The second time, it is a dozen Septimii who sprint around a corner before I can conceal myself. They see me alone but approach smartly, cautiously, so that when my blades arrow toward them they are able to mostly absorb the attack, the triangles embedding in the wood of their shield wall.
It’s a good tactic; usually stone chips upon impact and the imbuing is lost. It’s especially true for Praetorians’ razors.
