Cy/Storm/OPEN
Meanwhile, her squire cousin was having his palm pried open, a wad of gil slammed onto it. "Get supplies, boy," growled a hulking grey-haired berserker, jerking his chin in the direction of the makeshift stall. Gulping, fingers wrapping over the money, Storm sprinted his way over, clumsily waving his longsword at any zombies that neared. They were taken down by others before they could reach him. For the better, as already blood was seeping out of the cuts that littered his skin. He'd fractured something too, to be sure, but he couldn't think about that now, there were orders, and orders had to be followed, and—
He arrived at the mobile base winded, panting. Plunging his blade into the dirt, the squire squinted up at the relaxed proprietress. Recognizing her, Storm exclaimed, "Cyclone!", although truly it was more wheeze than exclamation. With a clumsy stumble the gil was scattered onto the base's nearest surface.
"As many as this can buy in potions," he said, each word interrupted by harsh suspirations.