The Astarte of the B

Lane sighed inwardly, barely perceptibly. He could only comfort himself mentally: come on, a magical medieval era is still the Middle Ages.,A deafening, chilling crack echoed through the air. The lively and loyal pup exploded into a shower of blood and screams before it even hit the ground.,He dismounted with a clatter of plate mail, but instead of drawing the sword from his back, he drew the dagger hanging from his breast.。