There is chaos on the battlefield, the strangely logical chaos of a brutal fracas. Everything is light and sound and mud and blood and the glint of clashing steel. Grunts and bellows and screams beset you on all sides, and are flooded with input as you try to make sense of the things you see and hear in front of you in time to stay alive. You parry once, twice, again, riposte, slash, backstep, parry, slash, dodge. A maul crushes your opponent’s skull from seemingly nowhere, and three more enemies crest the hill in his place. You dig deep, unleash your war cry and charge ahead, coordinating with your ally for a few miraculous moments as you sideswipe while he thrusts, cutting down the poor sap who ran ahead by himself. You meet the opposing duo, and begin a brutal waltz of exchanged parries, slashes, dodges, nicks and cuts. You plunge your sword through one and now the odds are in your favor, your sole opponent backed up against a rock with nowhere to turn. You move in for the kill, interrupting his attack with your sword and leaving him wide open for your ally to bash his head. You’ve won, and as you reach for the “scream” key to celebrate, you hear the telltale sound of clay shattering and see yourself licked by fire. You turn to run; your head is a boulder, rolling away from your body. As it settles, you can see your attackers dancing over your decapitated corpse while one of them plays the lute. This is the third time that jackass has snuck up on you, you are helpfully reminded, and you swear vengeance as you are whisked away to the overhead view of the battle.