Mag Paget, Shotgun Knight (clippedwing) wrote in emillion, |
“If you wish for a real fight, then face me beast, I will bring your end!” And with that taunt, she put everything she had into it. If she was going to fall today, then she would do all the damage she could before falling to Faram’s grace as she positioned herself very specifically between Ari, and the beast. The glow didn’t bode well for them, and Drake knew before his foot hit the monster’s leg that it wasn’t going to do anything. All they were going to do was tire themselves out, which would only make them easier to kill. There had to be something they could do, but he was at a loss. Before he could think of anything, though, the monster changed course, pushing past Ifrit and heading for Ari. He didn’t think - he ran. Before it could attack Ari, Drake threw himself between them, taking the blow. It knocked him back, and he gasped for air, struggling to stand again. The monster had veered course again, this time towards Aspel and her taunts. Drake coughed, blood dripping down his chin. This doesn’t bode well, he thought, licking his lips. Finally, he got to his feet and moved to rejoin Aspel and Mag. Drake -- unarmored, stupid Drake -- had saved her from the blow, but as she scrambled back, she saw red staining his lips. She wasn’t keeping up with this thing. Why wasn’t she keeping up with it? Even Ifrit’s fury seemed to have halted the beast’s advance only for a brief moment, and then in a rush of ineffective flame and a howl of frustrated rage, he was gone, and it was just the four of them on the field -- and, to her increasingly panicked mind, nothing but her cracking voice and tired hands standing between them and certain death. We should run, she wanted to call out, hide until it’s gone, but of course, they would never run and she… Stayed. And sang. And tried to keep fear at bay. All the Breaks in the world didn’t do a damn thing. The monster’s defense, attack, magicks had to be down, but even in their debuffed state, they were almost too much to take. Every time Mag felt her armor dent, saw her blood on the ground, it was another tick of the clock, and she had no idea how many ticks until her body ceased to function completely. For the moment, she was standing, but if she fell, it would be sudden, her loss announced only by a momentary darkening of her vision before her body gave up the fight. For the first time, she felt grateful for the inert cold of her amulet against her chest. It was a call to nothing, a call that would always go unanswered, and with no answer there could be no giant black wings deflating like resting ship’s sails, no shudder of the world at the fall of the one whose life she had loved more than her own. But there was Aspel, still fighting, and the light no longer reflected off her armor. The layer of blood on it seemed to suck in the light to merge with the black, and just as Mag had to believe, with every thrust of her spear that slid off the thing’s armor, that she would see the fight finished, she had also to believe Aspel would remain standing, and that one day all of this would become a story to tell while drunk, to remember with amused incredulity when the danger was over. She did not look behind her, but she heard a strain begin to settle on Ari’s voice, and wondered how long she could keep it up. With Ari, they were barely holding together; without her, they were good as dead. And so when the beast moved to attack the bard, Mag moved in front of the blow, taking its damage for herself. |