Stone had seen a flash of orange before she had needed to get out of Wilcar’s way, but hadn’t expected that.
It took several moments for Stone to get her wits about her.
There was a flan. There was also a man, who spilled out of the giant flan’s… stomach? Ass?
Wilcar had readied his rifle-spear; Altair loaded some elemental shot into his gun; Arielle was supporting them from the sidelines.
What was Stone to do?
She had practiced no magic, despite the fact that it was highly recommended to her. No scrolls had been bought, either, not that she would be able to use them—throwing was a ninja’s expertise.
Drawing her mythril dagger, the young thief narrowed her eyes, and thought, for one more instant, what she had learned. ‘Be vigilant,’ she was taught, but assuming a defensive stance here? What good would that do?
It also occurred to her that she hadn’t thought to bring any recovery items, either, which, in her words, had been real smart.
Silently, she rushed toward the enemy on her agile feet, the effects of Arielle’s song washing over her, cloak flying gently behind.
One piddly slash. Another. And her only hope was that her dagger wouldn’t get sucked into the flan’s body. But surely she’d learned enough not to let that happen.