Aisha had been watching for a while, hidden by the leaves of low tree branches, wondering what to do. On one side, that could have been her out there fighting against Chaucer. And if not for the fact that she was more interested in books than in going to the dead city itself, it would be her. Then again, she liked Chaucer. He was a good person, he only did what he had been taught to do, what he had been bred to do.
He seemed alright for a while, and Aisha winced audibly when he got slashed across the chest. Immediately she covered her mouth with her hand, cringing, simultaneously hoping his beautiful tattoos wouldn't be damaged too much by this. Then things started getting harder for Chaucer, and Aisha knew she was going to have to make a choice. Run. Fight with Chaucer. Do nothing. Even doing nothing would be a choice. But Aisha had already made hers. Out of her boot she fished a thin, short knife. Holding it by the blade, she aimed for the man in the middle, who was attacking Chaucer most aggressively, and threw. It landed perfectly in his eye. He barely had time to stagger backwards; the blade sunk in his skull all the way up to the handle, and the bleeding in his brain would kill him almost instantly.
Aisha swallowed, never enjoying fighting, and quickly jumped forward to pick up Chaucer's bow and pull an arrow out of a man's side. She had never excelled in marksmanship, but the man that had abandoned Chaucer and was now coming for her was so close that it was almost impossible to miss. She hit his neck, not his chest as she meant to, but it was enough to make the man bleed out in a matter of minutes.
But he never stopped running. Aisha screamed when she found herself without arrows and with an infuriated injured man holding a sword to her throat, ready to put an end to her life any second. The girl stared at the blade, knowing that trying to rot it would take too much time, and on top of that a rusty blade could still kill. Flinching backwards, she came to a stop against the bark of a tree, finding herself trapped. Chaucer was out of sight, the view blocked by the frame of the man that was happy threatening her. He didn't even seem to realise he'd been hit, no doubt charged with adrenalin by now. And alcohol. His breath smelled.
"That was a very wrong move, lass," he hissed, a wicked grin on his face. Aisha heard her heart pound in her ears, too afraid to grab her scimitar. He lifted his sword up high, aiming for her heart, and Aisha closed her eyes. Wrong move indeed.