The Templar glanced back as the girl yelled something at him and quickly dismounted just as fast as she had mounted the blood-red roan. He held his gaze for a moment, then once satisfied that the girl wasn't going to actively get herself killed, spurred his horse forward, tearing his sword free from it's sheath. The first victim of his blade was a Hurlock who couldn't get away from the Templar fast enough and got his head cleaved clean through. A grim smirk etched Emil's face for a mere second before it was summarily replaced with his normal tight-lipped expression. Though eventually Emil would have to dismount as well, else try to force the horse up the rickety stairs leading up to the platform on the far side, high above the rest of the battle. While it would be a sight to behold, Emil believed he best leave the insane antics for the Pirate, wherever in the Maker's name he may be in the forsaken bloody fray.
Emil swung his foot out of one side of the saddle, and leaned on the side of the horse, timing himself just right so that when he jumped, his fall was cushioned by the soft bodies of a pair of Genlocks. Without giving them time to likewise get a slash or stab off, he finished the fight before it could even start. He stood, and quickly stomped the head of one of the creatures and plunged his blade into the chest of the other. Another, heavier stomp on the other creature and the resulting crunch told that the genlock wouldn't get back into the fight. He then began to make his way towards the base of the stairs, cutting with his sword the whole way. Luckily for him, the densest concentration of the fight was happening on the wall proper, between the trio of the dwarf, the black templar, and the shapeshifter and their retinue. On his way, he paused for a moment to scratch his nose with his elbow. At first he just figured it for the Shapeshifter of the dreamer, though the itch was... Different, somehow. Something far more.. sinister. Though he'd have to think about it later, he was busy at the moment.
It didn't take him long before he was ascending the stairs. He had sheathed his blade and switched to his heavy bow, firing up the stairs at any 'Spawn who turned a corner too fast. A trail lay behind him, dead and bleeding 'Spawn with arrows protruding at every angle as the blood puddled at the base of the stairs. He'd need to polish his boots again after the fight was done. He reached the top of the platform, and turned out to be his turn to be surprised. A genlock bolter waited for the ascending Templar with his crossbow aiming right for his heart (if he even had one.) It was only by his quick wits and instinct that he managed to turn just in time for the bolt to bury itself in the back of his arm instead of his chest. A rabid hiss escaped with the pain and he whipped back around, bow swinging in a wide arc. The thick arch of the bow connected with the skull of the bolter, throwing it back and slamming it against the railing.
He approached with menace in his eyes and before the bolter could reload for a second shot the injured Templar kicked the genlock through the railing, and screaming down to the rapidly approaching ground. The thump almost managed to soothe the Templar. He grabbed the bolt and ripped it free from the armor, skin, and muscle as he approached the corner of the platform-- his perch. His actions had drawn the ire of what little archers and bolters were left-- thanks in part to Mira. So it was with them he began to work, but not before firing off an arrow behind Mira, striking a nearby 'Spawn. Mostly just to state that he was alive too. He couldn't bear to have her worry for him after all.
Solvej didn't even flinch as a fireball flew by over her shoulder. The magelet knew how to control herself, even if this was not something she automatically believed of all mages. Whether they acknowledged it or not, every last one of them was in that girl's debt to some degree, and the least she could do was trust that she wasn't about to get a lance of lightning to the back or some such paranoid delusion.
"Hn." With a soft grunt and a powerful exhale, the Black Templar swung her poleaxe in a ripping horizontal arc, cleaving through the general abdominal areas of several Darkspawn in the process. A number of blows sought the chinks in her armor, but none found them, rebounding off the darkened steel with great clangs but no particular effectiveness. Solvej didn't carry a shield in large part because she
was one, when she chose to be.
She caught a Shriek trying to edge in past her to get at Ethne and scowled, thrusting forward with the polearm and catching it just under the chin with the smaller blade topping the axe portion of her weapon, wrenching to the side and carrying the foul thing's throat with her. Switching her grip, she imitated something she'd seen the pirate do at some point and slammed her gauntleted fist into the face of the next hurlock to approach, producing a short series of wet pops. The creature toppled over, prepared for many things, doubtless, but not knuckles to the jaw. Taking several strides forward, she stomped on the base of the 'Spawn's spine even as she caught the next one in the temple with the blunt end of the pole. She could sense Rhapscallion to her sides, then behind her, and then a fair distance afield, cutting down his own opponents with a grace she did not possess. A small tingle at the back of her neck represented the nearness of magic, and in her own way, the magelet was mighty, too.
Their combined strength was clearing a large swath around them, other Darkspawn being channelled towards Kerin and the sword-wielding elf or else the pirate and the bear shredding through the lines on the other side. The temporary break in the onslaught was enough to allow them to advance forwards, and now it was they getting hit first, directing a smaller number towards the others, and on a more holistic level, they were all doing excatly what they needed to. Digging in under the pressure, advancing when it abated, and keeping the strain of it from overwhelming any one group in particular. It was almost beautiful.
It was also making quick work of the Darkspawn.
So far, so good. Ethne wasn't one to relish in the heat of battle like so many of her friends did, but at the very least, she could say she was no slouch when the situation called for it. She thought she was improving at this whole open-combat business, and if her relatively-unscathed condition was anything to go by, she was probably right. The thought brought her little joy, but there was certainly something to be said for not being a liability to the others.
From her position astride her horse, she was able to observe the flow of the battle around her, and though she hardly understood it in the same tactical, clever way as Solvej or Rudhale or Emilio might, she could tell at least that things seemed to be going well. Steering the Tevinter-bred mage mount with her knees alone, she swept her left hand outwards, producing a stonefist which crashed through a line of darkspawn at least seven deep, knocking all of them over. It was patently obvious that there was a marked difference in skill between these still left in the Deep Roads and their counterparts that marched on the surface, or maybe that was just her imagination.
It scarcely seemed to matter, and even as she ducked, forced to lay nearly backwards against her steed's rump, the uncanny sound of an arrow whistling by the space her head had been, she immediately straightened and hurled a silvery bolt of chain lightning in the offending direction. She was acting mostly by instinct now, and considerations about things like the enemy's strength or her allies' strategies were only minimal, a buzz somewhere at the back of her mind. Gripping her staff in-hand, she followed after Solvej when the woman strode forward, changing their position for purposes unknown to the little mage. It brought the first melee-fighting hurlock to her side that she'd had to deal with, and his sword caught her a good blow, leaving a line of blood trailing out of a gash from the middle of her thigh to her knee. The flimsy fabric of her robes was torn through easily enough, but the cut, though painful, was shallow, and not enough to distract her for long. With some effort, she steadied her shaking breaths and bent forward, throwing momentum from her torso into the stabbing motion that buried the somewhat-pointed tip of the mace-head of her staff into the darkspawn's chest.
It staggered backwards, freeing her to follow up the physical blow with two more, the ice projectiles catching it first in one foot (when her aim wavered with an unexpected jolt of pain from her leg) and then full in the face. It collapsed, and Ethne drew a shaky breath. It was just pain. It would be fine.
Rhapscallion's movements seemed more precise, more assured then before. Doubts had clouded his mind, harried his balance. Honestly, it had been all of his companions who helped him crawl out of whatever darkness he'd found himself wallowing in the moment he'd stepped foot in the Deep Roads. It was a conjoined effort, even considering those who preferred not to speak to him, such as Emil, that had lifted his spirits. He couldn't contribute
everything he had if he didn't put in what he had to offer in the first place ā namely himself, and who he was, how he fought, what he believed in. Ignoring his foolish desire to somehow become stronger, or someone else entirely, Rhapscallion weaved between Darkspawn with astonishing grace, given his temperament when out of battle, and threw himself into a series of intricate swings, flourishing swipes, and clever tricks that involved nasty kicks to the back of their knobby knees, felling them, then quickly sinking his dagger into their exposed jugulars. Infrequently, he looked over his shoulder, noting how close, or how far, his companions were. He needed to be sure.
His battle cries were not like Kerin's barrage of drums, nor Suicide's supposed calm, or Emil's discreet barrage of arrows sinking into flesh, of the whipping sounds that belonged solely to Solvej's spear, driving into sluggish hearts, and whatever blighter that was foolish enough to face her. Who knew where Rudhale was? His theme must've been made out of a pirate's jig, primed for dancing and merrymaking and utterly destroying his opponents without even breaking a sweat. It suited him well. Rhapscallion hadn't seen Mirabelle in all of this, but he supposed that her fighting style was much like his own, full of catlike grace and hidden stashes of poison, gasses, mysterious vials that would debilitate and ruin them upon contact.
He didn't actually have any vials of poison, though he knew they would've come in handy. Instead, Rhapscallion relied on his opponent's momentum, sidestepping when they barrelled into him, utilizing his shamshir as a hook, then sinking his blade like a fatal thorn driving into their hips, their sides, past their craggy ribcages. He had kept the jagged dagger that Rudhale had given him, out of sheer irony ā the one that had sunken into his abdomen, leaving behind an equally messy scar as a reminder. Irony wasn't tragic.
He, too, acted solely on instinct, following the heat of battle like an ebbing wave. If it moved this way, then he, too, would manoeuvre with it, leaving strategies and plans to those who could think of them while in combat. The clusters dwindled in his surrounding area, so Rhapscallion sizzled from view stepped between fallen corpses, always careful not to step on them. He'd always been this way. Stepping between open arms, lifeless fingers, and
just beside someone's gaping mouth, eye-sockets inhabited by discarded daggers. He quickened his pace, heading back towards Ethne and Solvej. He bound across another body, breaking into a brisk jog. Another hurlock ā as if there were not enough ā stepped into his past, long enough to snarl something unintelligible. His shamshir snapped forward. The head was taken clean from his shoulders before he even had a chance to raise his own weapons. The severed head went rolling carelessly down the dark tunnel, and his body fell into the genlock standing beside him. He danced past, scoring back-lashed blows to it's ankles.
Rhapscallion finally hacked and slashed his way towards Ethne, utilizing her horse's rump to keep himself from staggering over the Darkspawn she'd just dispatched of moments ago.
Of course she could protect herself, for even Solvej had said so, he had no doubt of that, but still, he worried after her. It was a nagging feeling tickling at his neck, forcing him to look backwards. To check on Kerin, to see if Suicide was fine, to make
sure that they were all alive and well.
āYou're alright?ā It was a question, sifted through heavy breaths. He wasn't looking at her, but instead peering out across the battlefield, hands clamped on his blades. He hadn't seen her wounds.
"I'm alive, aren't I?" she replied, managing a small smile over the rhythmic clenching of her jaw. It might not have been a deep wound, but she was no Solvej or Dekton or- gods forbid- Kerin, capable of pushing past agony like it was mere irritation, and it
hurt.
"And you're alive. And they're alive. I've never been better." In it's own strange way, it was even true, and that was something she'd think about later, when she had the time. Right now, there was a Genlock taking aim for Rhapscallion's exposed back, facing her as he was, and she was having none of that.
With a certainty she hadn't experienced in a long time, Ethne conjured the stone to her hands, compacting it into a shape as small as she could, and threw the dense projectile with a short, sharp motion, watching with half-lidded eyes as it crushed the Darkspawn's ribcage and slammed it back against several of its fellows, all headed for Kerin and the mysterious Dalish man. They'd all still be half-stumbling and crash, most likely. She found it difficult to mourn that, considering.
Not him, not them, not ever.Suicide was more than fine, despite the darkspawn's best efforts. When the pirate Rudhale entered the fray beside him, enough attention was drawn to him that the shapeshifter decided simply holding their aggression was no longer necessary. They had bled them enough to destroy them outright. After clawing open a last genlock's skull, Suicide shifted back into human form in a flash, confusing the nearest hurlock with the sudden change in the fighting style it was facing. It hadn't made up its mind as to how it wanted to proceed before Suicide splattered it over its comrades with the mace end of his staff. Enraged at their losses, a second charged forward, but the shapeshifter smoothly parried the blow to the side, before taking hold of the hurlock by the arm and using momentum against it, pulling it forward and around before slingshotting it back into its own ranks, where it slammed up against another darkspawn. With a roar Suicide hefted his staff overhead and speared the blade end through both of them, sending them down in a heap.
Two more came forward, Suicide parrying the first's blow aside before launching a fist into its face, shattering the jaw and sending it spinning onto its back. The second's overhead blow was cut off when Suicide's staff connected with skull mace end first, stunning and turning it around. He flipped the staff off smoothly and sliced horizontally, cleanly removing its head, before turning back to the first, driving the swordstaff down through its face.
A good day, indeed.
A short bark of laughter escaped the pirate at the Darkspawns' confusion over Suicide's sudden shapeshift (my, my, try saying
that five times fast!), but Rudhale was too busy with his own business to sit back and ridicule them when they turned into a drunken parody of some crude stage-show, the sort one might see in certain Rivaini taverns. Still, it was hard not to superimpose a bit of that fast-paced, dangerously-catchy music onto the whole thing, and if he was adding a little more spin and flourish into his own dance of death, well... surely nobody would fault him for that. He
may have even started humming, though really if anyone were to ask him about it later, he'd just smile a shit-eating grin and shrug diffidently.
One slice left, two vertically, sweep both blades low, there goes an artery, there a heap of guts, breathe in, spring sideways, feint with the kilij, slip under the shield, punch up under the chin with the katar, step out, and exhale. As natural as the breathing alone, when you'd been doing it long enough. Two hurlocks moved in at the same time, one swinging a hefty-looking mace and the other coming at him with dual knives. Well. That was three weapons to two, except pirates didn't play fair. With a one-shoulder shrug, Rudhale adjusted his grip on his katar and gave it the old two-finger toss, burying it neatly in the bicep of the club-wielder. That, naturally, was enough to weaken the incoming hit, and he took it on the flat of the kilij, pivoting out of the way of the much shorter daggers aimed for his chest and sliding his sword cleanly out from undrneath the club, forcing that one to hold his weapon all by his injured self.
Grinning like a madman, Rudhale delivered a slash to the back of its knees, causing an immediate collapse. Unfortunately he might have sliced too deeply, because the fall happened quickly enough to trap the curved blade in between the hurlock's thigh and calf, and he wasn't going to fight for it. Releasing the blade easily enough, the brigand dropped into a roll, springing up to the left of the second 'Spawn, who was by now considerably irritated by its inability to actually hit its target.
Too sodding bad, as he suspected his new snowy-pated friend would say, because things were about to get a lot worse for it. Being unarmed didn't slow him any, and he kicked upward, smashing one of the knives clean out of the creature's hand with a weighted blow. Jack had told him it was stupid to wear steel plates in the soles of your boots when you made your living on a
boat on the
ocean where people could
drown, and he'd gleefully ignored her like he usually did until she threw up her hands and told him not to blame her when he was dead and swimming with the fish.
It was a shame she wasn't here to see that he wasn't always a hopeless idiot. The second knife came down, but not before he caught the wrist wielding it and twisted. That time, he actually took hold of the blade as it fell, reversing it in his grip with a deft spin and shoving it into an eye without needing to think about it. Stepping back, Rudhale cracked his neck to either side and glanced around. The numbers were thinning.
The rapid beat of soft footfalls carried Mira the rest of the way towards the tower that Emil had ascended, his arrows taking down those that pursued her, which was fewer than most had attacking them, and more than Mira desired. She was forced to roll under a slicing blow from a hurlock, coming smoothly to a knee and sinking her knife into its lower back. Not waiting to see if the wound brought it down entirely, she pushed onward, flipping a throwing knife into her off hand, quickly finding a target blocking her way to release it into. It struck true in the throat of a genlock, but it fell awkwardly to the side, preventing Mira from retrieving it immediately. With all the dead darkspawn around, she doubted she'd be able to find the exact bodies she'd hit with knives when this was over. It was frustrating. She'd have to buy more next time she had the chance.
A pair of hurlocks had formed up side by side at the base of the stairs and looked to begin ascending towards the pesky Templar archer, but Mira was able to dash up behind them quick enough, knives in each hand, sinking a blade into the back of both skulls. The pair went down in a heap together, and their thick skulls preventing the knives from coming out cleanly. The awkward combination of forces that was trying to free the left knife, the weight of the falling hurlocks, and the sudden presence of stairs beneath her feet, was enough to trip Mira up and take her to the ground with the corpses.
Cursing to herself, she wrenched the second knife free and pushed herself up, turning to check behind her. A pair of archers had drawn up, though the first was struck by an arrow from above, no doubt Emil's. The second Mira flung a knife into just as he loosed his own attack, which struck Mira in her right shoulder, just under the collarbone. The force was enough to push her back into the stair above her, causing her to trip again. Though significant pain coursed through her arm and chest, and Mira was the first to admit she was none too familiar with pain, she refused to let herself sit still, pushing herself back upright and making her way up to the top of the tower. Emil himself seemed fine, and so she crouched down by the barrier that acted as a railing, giving herself a moment of respite.
"Get this out, will you?" she asked of Emil, tapping the arrow and immediately regretting doing so.
"Just do it quickly, yeah?" Emil cursed at himself as he couldn't get to the other Darkspawn in time before it losed it's crossbow bolt toward's what he thought was Mira. Mirabelle-- to his knowledge-- was positioned somewhere below the platform where he was stationed. She had left his line of sight, though an educated guess told him that the two bolters were aiming at his wily ally. The resulting knife to the face of the other proved his hypothesis correct, though whether or not the bolt had scored a hit on her or not was left up to mystery. Part of him wanted to go down to check, but the cold, solid part of his mind told him it prudent to stand his ground and fire at any other 'Spawn encroaching. If she was dead, there was nothing he could do about it, though if she survived, he would surely see her soon.
Once again, his guess proved right as Mira stumbled up the rest of the stairs and crouched by the railing. A part of him was glad she was alive, the other part was glad too, but only because she would another able hand if the 'Spawn managed to break toward them. He did stop his barrage of arrows long enough to hear her ask him to rip the arrow free of her shoulder. He was accustomed to that pain, having a bolt go through his arm just moments ago-- which still stung like hell-- though she, obviously, was not. She was no warrior, and he couldn't help but wonder how she managed to make her way up to him. Instead of words he merely grunted, withdrawing another arrow. Though instead of nocking this one, he handed it to Mira.
"Bite the wood. Try not to think of the pain... It will hurt-- at least until the Dreamer can take a look at you," he said evenly. There was obvious displeasure in the tone which he said dreamer, but no time to dwell on it now.
"Right. So I'll count to three, and pull it out then," He said...
"One...Tw--" though instead of three, he ripped it out at two. Unfamiliar with the trick as she was, Mira had
not been expecting that from the Templar, and yelped quite loudly. It hadn't been as bad as she'd thought, but that didn't change the fact that she delivered Emil an affronted glare, as well as a solid slap to the side of the face.
"Damn it!" she blurted, spitting out the arrow.
"You stupid little... ugh, thanks." Emil took the hit with as much grace as he could-- he couldn't say that it was unexpected, just that it stung a lot more than he would have imagined. He returned with a glare and muttered,
"If you would have clinched on three, it would have hurt a lot worse..." rubbing his face.
She supposed that made sense. But that alone wouldn't get him off the hook.
"So what do we do the next time I get shot, huh?" "Don't get shot."Kerin, still doing her part in this magnificent battle, was knee deep in the fresh corpses of
many Darkspawn. Tainted blood painted her armor a treacly crimson, dripping into a pool of blood at her feet. Her own armor was showing the wear of the battle, dents, nicks, a gash along the back of one of the arms, though none of them were deep enough for her to get infected by the taint. She made damn well sure of that. If she was to go, it wasn't going to be over a case of taint induced sniffles, but with her blade in her hands, a war song at her throat, and a battle in her front. Tis would be a good day to die, but she knew that more grand battles lay ahead of her yet. She wouldn't miss those for the world.
It seemed her unquenchable bloodlust drew a newcomer to her, like flies to spoiled meat, the scrawny mystery of an elf. She didn't mind in sharing her meal with him, as long as he didn't get in the way. She wouldn't slow her swings down, not in this state, not in this battle. She still had a bit of hidden agression to work off. Perhaps an artifact from the Morpheus battle, perhaps not. She knew not, all she knew at that point was the joy of battle. Though, she did note how the elf drew the blood from the creatures. Though it mattered not in the long run, a dead darkspawn was dead all the same, no matter the method in which it was slain. She also noted how the elf seemed to slip around her, avoiding her own blade and generally causing havoc in a stereotypically clean elfin way. Not that she could speak, standing solid, fighting in a stereotypically dwarven way. The thought made her chuckle. Or was it the thought? Was it the carnage that laid around her. Perhaps both. Perhaps neither, so maddened by blood she was.
It was a magnificent day, fighting underground once more.
Perhaps unfortunately for Kerin's very precise understanding of the situation, it seemed that the Darkspawn were not going to allow Andaer's methods to be
clean for all that much longer. With a small, resigned sigh, like one might give a particularly-obsinate child, the elf drew the straight-bladed dagger at his waist. Like his sword, it was pristine. Unlike it, the smaller blade had to be. He was not ignorant to the dangers of the Taint, nor of more commonplace infection, and this one was used only ever for a single purpose.
In a smooth movement, Andaer drew up his right sleeve, slicing through the linen wraps that wound over his forearm. The fabric fluttered unheeded to the ground, and without even the faintest hint of hesitation, he laid the blade over the surface of his skin, drawing it perpendicular to the direction of the limb. In its wake, a thin line of crimson welled to the surface, running freely over the honeyed tan of his skin and the paler, regular white scars that signified many previous such self-inflicted wounds. He was no uneducated human, experimenting with the power of his blood in darkened corners of some Templar-kept pet Circle. He had no need of dramatic flourish and hand-stabbing, nor was he about to ruin any of his muscles on accident.
With a half-clench of his fist, he drew the liquid into the air, and that was all it took. Much of what had been puddling around his dwarven compatriot joined it, forming into thick ropes of blood and ichor which wound sinuously about the air surrounding him, and through this, he threaded his magic. All at once, it was like opening one's eyes after a lifetime of blindness. Rather than sight though, it was another sense, indefinable as one of the usual five. All the same, it was as impactful and overwhelming as seeing color for the first time, and only years of careful moderation kept him from trying to do too much at once. Instead, he reached for the nearest Darkspawn, an archer, and felt for the life in its veins. Once he had a proper grasp of the network, of the way everything in that body moved and flowed and
was, he took possession of it.
At first, the creature fought the intrusion. They always did. But the Dalish's will was stronger, and the next arrow it fired buried itself in the neck of another Darkspawn, and another, and another, and by the time the creatures had discovered the source of the new onslaught, Andaer had moved on, controlling another instead. Multitasking was tedious, but not impossible, and though he understood he looked quite unusual, with ribbons of red flowing around himself, he could strike a foe with his sword all the same. And he did.
Something twinged in the back of Ethne's mind, a particular something that she had once termed the "healer-sense." It wasn't a very graceful appellation, but she didn't quite know what else to call that feeling she got whenever someone she was with became injured. It was just another one of those things she didn't quite understand, like how she knew it was Mira. Still, now wasn't the time to question it, and the healing spell left her fingers without another thought.
Dagna's men had not been idle in the meantime, and while the Warden-group had dealt with the bulk of the Darkspawn, the dwarves had set about knocking down the walls and destroying the encampment, careful to avoid the area immediately around the platform on which the archer had placed himself. The sound of snapping wood was prominent as the battle wound to a close, the last of the palisade falling even as the horns of retreat sounded. Dov's troops had sustained a fair few losses, but nothing he hadn't been expecting, and the Wardens had proven themselves more than capable today. Dagna, dismounting, caught Andaer's eye, gesturing to her bronto and then to Kerin, who the redheaded woman had noted earlier rode nothing more battle-ready than a simple pony, a beast more suited for hauling carts than anything.
She released the creature's reins, and as she expected, he made his way over to the elf immediately afterwards. She had no idea how he'd managed it, but the elf had made friends with the grouchiest bronto she'd ever met. Maybe it was some of that foresty-elfy stuff she didn't know much about. Whatever the case, she saluted, waved, then caught the saddle of one of her compatriots as he ran by, pulling herself astride in motion and calling out to the group.
"Good hunting, Wardens!" But there would be no more assistance from the dwarves of the Legion. They had their own job to do, and it was not one easily foresaken.
When the last Darkspawn fell, Rudhale straightened, taking in what was left of the outpost. It was in shambles, which he took to mean that they had succeeded. What was more, it looked as though everyone he'd come in with was still alive. If he'd had any mead or ale, he'd be passing it around right now. Instead, he wiped his recovered armaments off on the nearest bit of fabric (dead hurlock mage, as it turned out) and sheathed them, trotting over to where Kerin was (presumably eventually) coming down from her rage episode. She appeared to be surrounded by a pile of corpses almost as tall as she was, and he chuckled to himself, shaking his head as he ascended the pile, ignoring the unpleasant squelching noise this produced. There was actually an odd absence of blood, considering, and
that appeared to be concentrated at the feet of the new man. Odd, that.
"Looked funny at you, did they, my dear?" he quipped laconically, crouching and reaching a hand down to her. If he was concerned that she might still be anger-crazed, he certainly gave no indication of it.
"Serves them right, if I do say so myself." Kerin looked up at the pirate, half-crazed grin still plastered to her face. Her berserker episode had been replaced with the euphoria of a hard won battle. She was in high enough spirits to offer a quip right back to Rudhale.
"They still look funny, if I say so. Tongues hanging out and everything," she said, laughing and accepting the pirate's hand to aid her escape from the hole she so merrily dug.
From the platform, Emil leaned on the railing, and added his own comment, though still nursing a bruised cheek.
"Now that everything has been well and truly murdered, can we please get on with it?"