Damien
The axe swung wide. Nothing but air and stink. Damien bit off a curse as the rat’s blur slipped past his blade, his leg still burning where the other tore into him. Foolish, he thought, teeth clenched. Should’ve finished the one on me first. But watching Theea slam back into the pillar, arm caught in those jaws, there hadn’t been a choice that felt right.
Then the tide shifted — Thorn’s gust, Theea’s dagger — and the brute slackened its hold on her. Deimos’s magic ripped the other off Damien’s leg altogether, the carcass dropping heavy to the stone. He staggered once, planting the axe haft against the floor to steady himself. His pant leg was already soaked through, crimson dark against the fabric where teeth had chewed in, but he looked down at it with the dry detachment of a man taking stock. Flesh mangled, sure. But he’d seen worse.
'Tis but a scratch!
Theea stepped back in with her blade, aiming to finish the last one. Damien didn’t move to crowd her or steal the strike. That kill was hers. Instead, he shifted to stand aside at her flank, axe angled low as he turned his head toward the yawning nest Deimos had opened.
The Sword’s warning still hung in the air: There might be others coming.
Damien’s eyes flicked to Thorn, then to Deimos, brows curving with thought. “Could set a trap,” he suggested, voice low but firm. “Or funnel them somehow.” Though, of course, he didn't know whether they'd come streaming from the opening or at random out of other crevices.
So even as he said it, he set his stance behind Theea, blood dripping into his boot, axe ready. If anything else came clawing up from the dark, it’d find him standing there first.
Damien covers Theea’s back, and suggests to Deimos and Thorn that they set a trap or funnel the next wave.
Then the tide shifted — Thorn’s gust, Theea’s dagger — and the brute slackened its hold on her. Deimos’s magic ripped the other off Damien’s leg altogether, the carcass dropping heavy to the stone. He staggered once, planting the axe haft against the floor to steady himself. His pant leg was already soaked through, crimson dark against the fabric where teeth had chewed in, but he looked down at it with the dry detachment of a man taking stock. Flesh mangled, sure. But he’d seen worse.
'Tis but a scratch!
Theea stepped back in with her blade, aiming to finish the last one. Damien didn’t move to crowd her or steal the strike. That kill was hers. Instead, he shifted to stand aside at her flank, axe angled low as he turned his head toward the yawning nest Deimos had opened.
The Sword’s warning still hung in the air: There might be others coming.
Damien’s eyes flicked to Thorn, then to Deimos, brows curving with thought. “Could set a trap,” he suggested, voice low but firm. “Or funnel them somehow.” Though, of course, he didn't know whether they'd come streaming from the opening or at random out of other crevices.
So even as he said it, he set his stance behind Theea, blood dripping into his boot, axe ready. If anything else came clawing up from the dark, it’d find him standing there first.
Damien covers Theea’s back, and suggests to Deimos and Thorn that they set a trap or funnel the next wave.
i speak for the trees
and they hate you bro
and they hate you bro
