The feel of the beast's flesh beneath their blades felt like nothing the soldiers of either creed had ever felt before. The crusader knight, a volunteer soldier from French pastures, swung his sword, and it felt like he was trying to drive the blade through a mass of boggish mud. The texture was viscous, slow to be hacked. Even when he bashed the crested wyrm with his shield he broke none of its bones, cracked no scales. The mythical serpent hissed, swung its head, and tore through the knight's armor with raw strength rather than sharpness of its horn. A nearby Saracen took advantage of the death of his newfound ally to toss aside his shield, grasp his scimitar with both hands, and swing down with all of his might upon the neck of the black beast.
The Middle-Eastern weapon had as little effect on the reptile as the European weapon had. He did not have to be disappointed long; a moment later he was gored from behind upon the tusk of a mastodon that had welled up from an inky pool of sludge. As he screamed to his death, birds-of-paradise alighted upon him and plucked out his eyes and tongue.