Rictor/Raol/Emily/Zacheus/Foxe
From the moment the four-armed woman’s voice stopped echoing, the older dragon rider was barking orders in her stead. A single gesture and shout from Foxe led to their group falling into formation like a well-oiled machine, shifting to cover one of the tunnels. Monsters were boiling out of the side passages, pouring down like a stream of ants (but larger, so much larger).
The pair of holy knights took up position beside the dragoon and ahead of the mage and archer, a tightly-closed string of fighters shielding their second row from the fray. Which would be needed soon enough: the ground shook as a Tyranorox approached them, its grey pebbled hide scraping on the crystals lining the cavern’s walls. It looked like rock and sounded like rock. Are you fucking kidding me, Rictor thought, a brief whisper of doubt in his mind. But Leveren’s presence beside him was a reassuring shield-arm—and even above that, there was the light of Faram thrumming inside him, a slender thread of holy magic that all he had to reach out and grab.
Which he did: the searing holy magic mingled with electricity into a white-hot cocktail in his hand and rippling down his gunblade, as Rictor threw a Hallowed Bolt at the dinosaur, magic crackling across the space between them. The monster roared, its head scraping the top of the ceiling as Grenades and Redmaws hovered in the air beside it and approached their party.