The Korporal, meantime, seemed about to lose his mind from the sheer tension, unable to stop himself from pacing around the edges of their party and adjusting and readjusting his grip on his gunblade. The sprawled corpses seemed to speak to some danger in their vicinity, but there was nothing—nothing—nearby to indicate what had killed them, nor any sign of animal attack on the bodies. He almost found himself wistfully eyeing the distance, hoping for an overgrown monster to appear. That, at least, Rictor knew how to deal with.
But then someone spotted something, called out, and his head snapped to attention, squinting through the Mist. Their group started moving again, still at the ready, with the Blades positioned around the perimeter of the group like a hume shield. As they reached the back of the ruins (an area that had once been an antechamber of some sort), they saw it: a dully-gleaming golden casket with ornate decorative flourishes, a heavy lid, and two poles slung through its edges for transport.
The holy artefact they’d come to retrieve. The Pharist monument, practically humming with white magic.
“Finally,” Ric growled under his breath, as their party sprang into movement around it, securing the area. Once it was clear they were alone (for Faram’s sake, what had killed the previous expedition?), the two men exchanged a look and set their shoulders into the poles at a barked order from Black.
“Ladies, cover us,” the Korporal said with a glance at the white and black mages. “And Baines, a hand?”