Rictor/Storm/Lille
"Well enough. Nothing's happened to us yet. Have you seen Zacheus?" Rictor's attention kept swinging back and forth, twitching at all the sensory input, trying to focus on Lille's face even as another wailing scream drew his focus – another burst of splintering wood in the distance, another sizzle of fire and thunder, another yell from the sand. An old restlessness had already sunk into his body, that itch for action and to do something.
"Nevermind. Doesn't matter. We're knights and we can't do a fucking thing here—you already had the right idea." He spat out the words, curt and business-like: "Let's go."
Ric handed his gunblade to the nearest recognisable squire who wasn't Storm, along with a hissed oath to personally end him if the boy let anything happen to the sword—and then the three of them were wading back out into the surf. His steps slowed and it was like ploughing through treacle, before the frothing waters rose waist-high and Rictor was deep enough to dive in, searching out the nearest stranded wounded. They were far enough away from the battle with—whatever that was, but the iron crabs were in the water, batting around the survivors in their own attempts to thrash onto the shore. There was still danger, but this way, at least, he could keep an eye on his best friend's little sister.
He tried to stay near Lille and his squire, but soon enough it all turned into a churning mess of water, seafoam, shards of wood and wreckage and debris, trying to hook his arm around someone's torso and pull them up out of the water, an interminable weight pulling at their limbs.