Not immediately, but soon, with a blow like that. Whatever he’s doing now, it’s on borrowed time. The nearest healers are an hour’s ride away — he’ll bleed out before they ever get there.
Something in her chest clenches in tight misery, tries to seize her legs to run. But Wren wasn't trained to flee. As she plants her stance (they can yet finish this, the stranger’s sacrifice may not be wasted) to assess the scene there’s still a chance, there's, There’s no blood at all.
He has the opening: She doesn’t pause to think. The blow’s heavy, her blade's sharp. One, two and the demon's neck shears, thick tentacles flopping about as its fallen skull. The form of it twists before her eyes, a flash of dark hair and twisted armor, and it’s gone. Flesh dissolves into shuddering light, matter drawn away into ichor and the Fade.
Above them the Rift still pulses. It won’t be long until something else makes its way through. It won’t be long either until this man’s body catches up with his mind, and remembers its agony. (There’s no blood — but she can’t trust her perceptions just yet). Wren kicks clear of the little pile, stoops to throw an arm around Gaultier's shoulders.
“Quickly,” As intent as before, and full of a new solemnity. It would be a mistake to sheathe her blade now, but she can gesture with the hilt. “Raise the green light towards it. A Rift — feel it calling to you? Now cast that tie aside.”
A shardbearer would handle this better, she’s certain. What she’s gleaned of these matters has been necessarily secondhand. Few are eager to speak of such things, their language forever elliptical when they do. Some matters defy clear explanation.
man you know i love that teal deer it’s all good ❤
Not immediately, but soon, with a blow like that. Whatever he’s doing now, it’s on borrowed time. The nearest healers are an hour’s ride away — he’ll bleed out before they ever get there.
Something in her chest clenches in tight misery, tries to seize her legs to run. But Wren wasn't trained to flee. As she plants her stance (they can yet finish this, the stranger’s sacrifice may not be wasted) to assess the scene there’s still a chance, there's,
There’s no blood at all.
He has the opening: She doesn’t pause to think. The blow’s heavy, her blade's sharp. One, two and the demon's neck shears, thick tentacles flopping about as its fallen skull. The form of it twists before her eyes, a flash of dark hair and twisted armor, and it’s gone. Flesh dissolves into shuddering light, matter drawn away into ichor and the Fade.
Above them the Rift still pulses. It won’t be long until something else makes its way through. It won’t be long either until this man’s body catches up with his mind, and remembers its agony. (There’s no blood — but she can’t trust her perceptions just yet). Wren kicks clear of the little pile, stoops to throw an arm around Gaultier's shoulders.
“Quickly,” As intent as before, and full of a new solemnity. It would be a mistake to sheathe her blade now, but she can gesture with the hilt. “Raise the green light towards it. A Rift — feel it calling to you? Now cast that tie aside.”
A shardbearer would handle this better, she’s certain. What she’s gleaned of these matters has been necessarily secondhand. Few are eager to speak of such things, their language forever elliptical when they do. Some matters defy clear explanation.