Completely distracted, Rictor was thrown when the mirrorknight took another swipe at him. Pain exploded; the man fell with a cry, his left arm nearly severed at the shoulder, bone and muscle and sinew cleaved open—he couldn’t even think through it anymore, couldn’t piece together the details of what was happening around him.
The Dreadguard seemed weakened, however, beset by the female knight’s abilities. And so Rictor did something he rarely resorted to: he reached for his magic rather than his sword, delivering a blistering holy spell that chased the heels of Scarlet’s Dark magic (Dark, it was the Dark, fuck) and dug its way into the monster, which bellowed with a nails-on-chalkboard noise that drowned their surroundings.
Although the Fell Knight had not known him long (and it had been years since she had last seen him), it was clear he had been thrown off guard, allowing his emotions to blind him from the impending attack. He was strong, but he was weak. Did she need to come with a sign?: Caution, may use Dark abilities, do not be alarmed. And the blood from his arm (so much blood) did bring a flash of guilt to her eyes. No. Her pity party could come later; she had encountered enough of Rictors to know their disapproval, their aversion, their disgust, but the Dreadguard would need to go before she did.
With the monster drained, a bit of his life, his health, surging through her, Scarlet was charging at it again as she saw, then felt, the presence of Holy magic. She allowed herself a moment to feel the familiarity of it; the feeling of warmth, yet a revering fear; the feeling of Light, and her late father. Then, she was pushing past the deafening cry, driving her sword up into the roof of the monster’s open mouth.
The noise abruptly stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its death.
When the mirrorknight finally fell, so did the holy knight: drained from that last powerful burst of magic, drained of energy, Rictor toppled, a disconcerting amount of blood seeping out from the joints in his armour, an exposed bone jutting from his sleeve. The last thing he saw was Scarlet, blonde hair matted with her own blood, the taste of the Dark thick in the air. His eyes closed, and everything faded away.
Scarlet hated clinics. It felt too sterile and too full of death at the same time. The Holy Knight had fallen unconscious, his arm somehow still attached to his body, and losing blood quickly. There was no hesitation on her part, managing to pick him (along with his damn heavy sword) and take him to the city clinic. She felt many emotions on her brief journey back, some guilt, mostly anger, then, apathy.
“Rictor,” she had told them, since that’s all they needed to know (but also because that’s really all she knew). Passing off the man’s weapon before heading back for the exit, it took the staff a moment to realize that this injured knight was not staying.
“Excuse me.” Ignore.
“Where are you going?” Eyeroll, keep walking.
“You need medical attention.”
“Miss?”
Almost at the exit, she turned on her heel quickly, a piercing gaze fixed upon the poor medic following her, who seemed rather caught off guard. “I --” She quirked up a brow, paying no attention to the trail of blood droplets she seemed to be leaving behind. The medic shut his mouth, deciding to cast Cura upon the stubborn knight instead. “Thank you,” she acknowledged, without the steely edge of irritation in her voice. And with that, she returned to the battleground.