Rictor/Raol/Emily/Zacheus/Foxe
The rolling wave of blasts sent their party stumbling, skin crisped and singed. Rictor flinched back from the flames, feeling them heating his armour. Whatever gaps Foxe might’ve had when it came to leading, Korporal Cassul provided the support; he was well-accustomed to being a right-hand man, executing someone else’s orders and wrangling a disparate group together. Even so, they were on the verge of being overwhelmed (Faram’s sake, there were so many monsters)—but then Foxe redirected them. Focused them.
Narrow their attention on a single cluster of beasts, take them out one-by-one. They could do this.
The two holy knights, used to fighting by each others’ sides, took point in front of the Tyranorox. “Handsome devil, isn’t he,” Rictor said as they stared up and met the creature’s eye, another blast of Holy (enlivened by Raol’s own magic) now exploding against its neck. And then the monster was moving, its rock-hard tail whipping out from behind and sending them scattering and rolling on the crystalline ground.
The world spun. Before Rictor could get back to his feet, the Tyranorox’s teeth were sinking on his arm, worrying at the limb like a dog with a bone, the metal crunching and grinding, slicing through the breaks in the metal. He bit back a hiss of pain, and rose with his gunblade hacking at its skin, point of the sword driving into its shoulder, struggling to pry it loose.