Years of fighting, of throwing away his life for lords that couldn't care less, finally came back to bite him in the ass.

The last battle John fought in - a skirmish on the border - ended his career permanently, a nasty wound jeopardizing years of diligent work. The armour he was wearing - a protective case of steel and hide, faltered him, when he needed it most. His knee, pierced by a wide slash of a spear, buckled under his weight, rendering the Highlander useless.

Soap rushed out of battle, waddling on uneven feet. He cannot die like this, a yelping beast left to bleed out. He was always a loyal dog, a trained tool, a hound for his Laird's whims. But now, when his body was stricken by fever, gangrene creeping into the sopping wound, he couldn't stop but think. Was his life worth so little to die at his 'masters' feet? A dog among the pack of monsters, worth no more than the sword at his belt... No. He won't go like this...he can't!

When he fell over the forest floor, leg killing him with every shaky step, footsteps sounded behind John. He won't be slaughtered...he won't go without a fight.