End of the Count

The door to the roof flew open, banging loudly against the adjacent stone parapet. Houtmann ver Graf scrambled out, leg and face bleeding, several ribs cracked, his plate armor caved in several places. He turned as he reached the parapet, pulling at stone wall and iron fencing to gain his feet.
His once-shining sword, recently crafted by the finest guildsmith in the Workshop, was now only a third of what it had once been- still he clutched it in his good hand and turned to face his foe. The glowing red eyes 'neath the baleful winged helm shook him, and he could hear the jeering calls of the villain's creatures below, the creatures that had ripped through his guard as his once-glorious blade would through paper. "You cannot do this! I am Graf, an appointed count by the Regent! He may be gone, but still I am honored in the court, so said by the crown-prince!"
A deep voice, its accent of Sorkova, issued from the shadows of the helm- it was thick with satisfied malice. "You may be a count, Houtmann," the figure strode toward the wounded man, wicked broadsword bursting to life with flame, "but I-" he knocked the struggling man's broken blade away with the sweep of one hand, grasped the Graf's shoulder, and plunged the flaming blade through fine plate armor, through flesh, through bone, and out through the other side. "am Duke."

Dated 05/08/22