Dorian offers only a little nod at the Bull's reassurance. The lift shudders a little as they rise, and the scrape of metal draws Dorian's attention to the staff left lying on the platform. He turns, scooping it up, resisting the urge to let himself fold over completely from exhaustion.
The platform jerks, but Dorian has already spun around at the Bull's curse. A spell jumps to the tip of his tongue – though a distant, rational part of him knows he has no mana left to cast it. The sudden fall and the abrupt stop tells him that the Bull has his hands full with the lift, and—
The darkspawn charges, and so does Dorian. He can almost imagine his ancestors screaming at him from beyond the Veil. Leave him, you half-wit. Protect yourself. He's nobody. And he can feel the thoughts flying around in his head, can feel his mind going through the brutal calculus of battle, of practicality and self-preservation.
Rather conveniently, he can't hear any of that over the rush of blood in his ears, over the constant chant in his head: save him save him save him
He skids to a halt in front of the Bull, arms flung out to shield him. The darkspawn lets out a guttural cry as its chipped, rusted sword swings down, and Dorian watches with grim resignation, teeth gritted and eyes hard. Had a decent run— a stray thought, rising to the surface. Could've done with more wine and fewer darkspawn, though.
But Dorian isn't cut down. Instead, the darkspawn screeches, reeling back and letting its sword drop to the platform. It's only when the darkspawn reaches up with both hands to grip its hilt that Dorian notices the knife sunk deeply into its eye socket. The darkspawn yanks the blade out with a wild shriek of pain, and Dorian only just manages to turn his head away from the spray of blood. He still feels it splash against the side of his head, thick and unnaturally hot against his skin, and he shudders with disgust.
Not a blink later, a second blade flies down, and with a wet squelch, it sinks deeply into the darkspawn's throat.
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The platform jerks, but Dorian has already spun around at the Bull's curse. A spell jumps to the tip of his tongue – though a distant, rational part of him knows he has no mana left to cast it. The sudden fall and the abrupt stop tells him that the Bull has his hands full with the lift, and—
The darkspawn charges, and so does Dorian. He can almost imagine his ancestors screaming at him from beyond the Veil. Leave him, you half-wit. Protect yourself. He's nobody. And he can feel the thoughts flying around in his head, can feel his mind going through the brutal calculus of battle, of practicality and self-preservation.
Rather conveniently, he can't hear any of that over the rush of blood in his ears, over the constant chant in his head: save him save him save him
He skids to a halt in front of the Bull, arms flung out to shield him. The darkspawn lets out a guttural cry as its chipped, rusted sword swings down, and Dorian watches with grim resignation, teeth gritted and eyes hard. Had a decent run— a stray thought, rising to the surface. Could've done with more wine and fewer darkspawn, though.
But Dorian isn't cut down. Instead, the darkspawn screeches, reeling back and letting its sword drop to the platform. It's only when the darkspawn reaches up with both hands to grip its hilt that Dorian notices the knife sunk deeply into its eye socket. The darkspawn yanks the blade out with a wild shriek of pain, and Dorian only just manages to turn his head away from the spray of blood. He still feels it splash against the side of his head, thick and unnaturally hot against his skin, and he shudders with disgust.
Not a blink later, a second blade flies down, and with a wet squelch, it sinks deeply into the darkspawn's throat.