Asgarth regained conciousness and found himself being dragged from the blood-saturated battleground by his warband. “Let me go!” he bemoaned.
“You are injured, sire, and thy noble steed is slain!” they expiated.
“You can shove my steed up thy arse!” expressed Asgarth, writhing free from their vice-like clutches. He rose and charged back into the fray on foot, waving his sword valiantly as he uttered blood-churning death-cries.
Soon he awoke once more to find himself being dragged from the battleground by his warband. “What happened?” he queried angrily.
“Ye were knocked out once more, my liege,” mouthed one of their number. “Thy health is very low.”
“Let me go, thou scurrilous sewer rat whore of a bitch!” growled Asgarth, escaping their hands and charging afresh into the battle.
Not long afterwards he awoke to find himself being dragged from the battleground. “Was I knocked out again?” he expressed. “By the gods of the Jurellian Temple, it is fortunate that heroes such as I apparently cannot be slain, only knocked out.”
“By my troth, sire, thou art greatly blessed in this way,” guffawed one of his men-at-arms a moment before an enemy arrow came from nowhere and plunged into his open mouth, killing him.
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