Rictor/Storm/Lille
If his squire's shouts didn't summon him, Lille screaming his name certainly would. Rictor heard that sound as if it were a dog whistle tailored for him alone, his name piercing right through the chaos. He whirled to try to find them in the mess, eyes flicking from one panicking figure to the other, trying to locate one tall dark-skinned boy and one skinny blonde. Even as he searched for them, Ric was still spluttering, coughing up water, hacking and choking as the tidal wave slowly subsided. Leaving the monsters behind.
— there.
He strode through the surf and broke into a run across the sand, seeing the crab looming over the two youths he was already starting to think of as his wards, his charges. Rictor didn't have his gunblade, but he picked up a nearby two-by-four – it used to belong to the deck of a ship, or so he thought – and summoned on the reserves of strength and technique that knighthood had taught him. The armour break, when it smashed the crab, was not enough to bring it down – but it was certainly enough to stun it, to get its attention, to infuriate it. Hallowed Bolt followed a heartbeat later, holy and thunder mingling in Rictor's palm and blasting against the crab's carapace. It wailed, an inhuman chittering noise disguised by its mandibles, and scurried off across the sands. (It didn't head back towards the water, as he'd expected. Curious. Rictor filed the thought away, somewhere amongst the shock and anger.)
"You're hurt," Rictor said, voice rasping, raw with saltwater and from shouting. He examined Storm's wounds and then started hefting at the piece of scrap wood, trying to lift it from his squire. Gruffly: "Lille. Can you get him out of here?"