[center][h1][color=FF5733]
Archer Anders
[/color][/h1][/center]

Archer stood and seethed, as in the mahogany of his eyes, reflected fibres burnt away about the knee. Beneath, the skin was reddened by the lick of encroaching flame, although Archer could keep that much at bay – and it was nowhere near as red as his face, swollen by his locking jaw. Teeth clenched so tight that it hurt. He squeezed his fists, and the heat in his palms subsided – the focus necessitated by magic gave way, instead, to a different sort of fire. He drew back his arm. He let out a short breath.

“[color=FF5733]Those were my good pants,[/color]” he explained, calmly. One by one he stretched his fingers, before balling them back into a fist. Then he was yelling again, as suddenly and loudly as though he had never stopped.
“[color=FF5733]Those![/color]”
[i]Punch.[/i]
“[color=FF5733]Were![/color]”
[i]Punch.[/i]
“[color=FF5733]My![/color]”
[b][i]Punch.[/i][/b]
“[color=FF5733]Good![/color]”
[b][i]Punch.[/i][/b]
“[color=FF5733]Pants![/color]”
He brought his knee up, and caught its jaw – then extended his leg, thrust his foot through the exposed vertebrae, before bringing it down on the fallen skull.
  
It splintered beneath his heel, shattered like china. It sounded like that, too. A broken mess of exposed bone lay at his feet, and he stood panting, staring. Unsatisfied. For a few seconds the anger didn’t leave, it stayed and it broiled. Expected more – demanded it, even. It was something primal inside, something that throbbed with the beating of his heart, and threatened to consume him if he didn't do more. Hurt them worse. But after a few seconds of the bones laying still and truly dead, the fight left him.
Like hot metal driven into ice, he suddenly felt brittle. Weak. He swayed on the spot for an instant. Then he inhaled, and spat on the bones at his feet.
“[color=FF5733]They were my [i]only[/i] pants,[/color]” he grumbled in the ensuing moment of clarity. He was warding the flames off, but he was quickly running out of pant-space. He turned to the others, overlooking the chaos as the endorphins started to spill in: “[color=FF5733]Anybody carrying water?[/color]”


[center][h1][color=267FD3]
ℤ𝕖𝕡𝕙𝕪𝕣𝕦𝕤 𝔸𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣𝕤
[/color][/h1][/center]
Zephyrus didn’t break pace between crossing the threshold and making his way towards Hogarth, steps careful and silent. And although he moved lightly, his chest was heavy. He was filled with a peculiar melancholy; one he would not soon forget – he had made the worst of mistakes, and failed to save a child’s life. An undead child, perhaps, a wretch of the forest. But nonetheless, a casualty that might have been avoided if he had acted with more gusto and grace. 
But that same feeling of loss drove him to help. He would not watch another fall quietly into this temple’s tenebrous grasp. 
And so he kept walking, eyes forwards. And knelt, calmly. His face devoid of pain, of anger – a soothing monotone. His default, his greatest skill. He cut a length of cloth off of the shirt beneath his armour, and offered it as a bandage. 
“[color=267FD3]Hello, my friend. We’re here, now.[/color]”