Rictor/Siana/Ari
“What the fuck.” The words slipped out of Rictor’s mouth uncontrollably, a kneejerk response to the lumbering monster in front of them as it emerged from the storm along with its prey. It looked like a Wendigo, and he still remembered the myth and folklore that had sprung up around these monsters: that they were the results of watery burials, men drowned and corpses risen, spirits bound in their chests, heads severed.
The ice was a new touch, though.
Rictor glanced at the tiny, slight figure as she scurried behind them with the instrument clutched protectively to her chest—must be a bard. (And was that a familiar Anjou accent…? He wondered.)
“Glad to see you too,” he said, the Kerwonian accent recognisable, a relieved smile behind his words. “At least you’re not one of… those. Whatever the fuck that is.” The Wendice turned—as if it could hear him, even headless as it was—and Rictor couldn’t help but shudder, and he told himself it was from the cold. He tightened his grip on his sword and after exchanging a look with Siana, took one step forward, then another.
And then he broke into movement: there was a gunshot, his fire ammo drilling its way into the creature’s shoulder and sizzling, melting layers of frostbitten flesh as the holy knight charged forward with a cutting slash. It didn’t do as much damage as he’d expected; their enemy seemed to be shielded somehow, with protective magicks.