Bandit Captain

The bandit captain doesn't commit to one approach — that's how you get killed. Two attacks, mixed and matched depending on what the situation demands: close in with the scimitar, open the distance and finish with the pistol, or keep an opponent guessing with both. The combination isn't flashy. It's efficient, and efficiency is what separates a captain from a common thug.

Up close, the captain fights like someone who has survived a hundred brawls by being just a little dirtier than everyone else. The scimitar swings with practiced authority — not the wild hacking of a desperate bandit, but the measured strikes of someone who has trained, who has killed, and who has no intention of making it a fair fight.

The pistol is the captain's equaliser — and their favourite way to end an argument before it starts. At thirty feet it's devastating; at ninety it's still a threat most opponents didn't see coming. The shot rings out with the kind of finality that reminds everyone present exactly who is in charge here.

The blade is already coming in — and the captain has already moved. Not a panicked flinch, but a deliberate shift of the weapon into the strike's path, angling steel against steel with the reflexes of someone who has been in enough fights to stop being surprised by them. The blow glances off or misses entirely, and the captain doesn't even look rattled. Just readjusts their grip and gets back to the business of winning.