Mag Paget, Shotgun Knight (clippedwing) wrote in emillion, |
It was not, in Ari’s mind, a very good morning. She had slept poorly, walking hurt, her throat was sore, her ribs uncomfortably tight under a leather breastplate not quite right for her body (but better, in the end, than the torn and dirty dress she had worn to lunch with Flynn what seemed like years ago). They were going, she thought, to the Tower. Of course they were. And she, mad and clearly senseless bard that she was, was following these three seasoned fighters into what she had been told was likely to be their final battle. Why was she here? Why? (But the choice to stay behind hadn’t ever been on the table, somehow. Someday, she thought, when all of this had ended -- not if, she had enough optimism to say it wasn’t if -- she would have to take a long, hard look at why.) With these thoughts dark in her mind, she was almost -- oddly -- glad when it seemed they would be deterred. But then she saw the creature, nearly as massive as the one rampaging at the center of the city, and as Aspel began to taunt it and charged forward to engage it, her heart sank. They were tired and injured and -- Focus. In the end, it was like going onstage. Breathe, clear you mind, sing. She had never been gripped by stage fright. The creature was a prop dragon and they the victors by the script. They just had to play their parts. And so her voice, tired but dosed with tea and honey washed down by half a gallon of coffee, rang out over the field, clear and bright and more confident than she felt. She felt the familiar protections settle into her skin like warm, invisible armor, felt her pulse and fingers quicken. Ari’s particular brand of magic settled over Mag as well, and she gripped her spear tighter, settled into a defensive stance. Bullets would do nothing against this beast, with its concrete hide, but if she could create a crack in its defense, perhaps they had a chance. In a moment of adrenaline-induced amusement—or madness—she spared a thought for Drake, who would be engaging it with hand-to-hand techniques. Their situation was dire―but she had no intention of dying here, and would not allow any of the other three to fall either. “You’ll fall to your death here, beast!” she shouted at the monster. “Now’s your chance to write to your mother and tell her you love her, before we kick your ass!” Armor Break was first on her order of business. Fracture the shell, so that they could hurt the beast before it had a chance to hurt them. With Aspel at her side, in the armor that she had worn when they had first met, Mag wanted to believe that they could beat the odds and put an end to the nightmare. He was tired. There hadn’t been much of a chance to recover from the day before, but that was irrelevant - the city had suffered the entire night through, and the longer they waited to engage, the more casualties, the more damage, the more suffering. If he could prevent even one more death, it would be worth it. And so he hadn’t said anything as Aspel, Mag and Ari had gotten ready, hadn’t raised an eyebrow at Aspel’s new armor or weapon choice (he remembered the hammer, remembered how it had smashed into the skull of the woman who had controlled the beast that had wrecked the docks) and he had followed them out. His shoulder was stiff and exhaustion made his movement slow. He was sure the knuckles in his left hand were broken - Chakra could only do so much, and there were people who needed more urgent healing - but he’d still strapped on his claws, breathing through the pain. The monster that rose high above them was no surprise - his only thoughts were of getting the thing out of their way, of moving forward. They had to get to the Tower, had to deal with the Sage and her beast. There was no time for complications and so he dashed forward, ignoring his body’s protests. |