Two arrows loosed, their flight heralded by the deep hums of once-taut string. Cecelia’s to the hooded goliath’s cannonball shoulder, wind magic sheath primed to knock the joint open should the head catch into whatever hammer-swinging muscle lied beneath. A beat later came Lein’s, sent into the murky depths of the hood itself, towards eyes, nose, maw, a harassment of any sense still left in the wake of its former life. A one-two punch that would give most foes pause, if even for a moment, if defended or allowed to sink home.
A third arrow, propelled by a change in orders, was instead sung its approach by clattering, smashing, and pounding drums. Sir Gerard, ever impetuous, strove to make good on his word.
His sabatons pounded the damp, musty tile. Sparks flew as his shield caught the the beard of a swinging axe upon its metallic border, only to be shoved aside as steel, sinew, and speed collided with strung-up bone. A human battering ram, knocking all clear from his path.
His golden eyes flicked ahead, noting the trajectories of his comrades’ shots and he selected his own target in turn as he bore down upon the hulking undead. Another time might have seen him realize that as proof of his continued training within the Order, no mean feat that having the eyes to react to flying arrows was—
Face. Shoulder. Two targets. Just like Jeremiah. Win by forcing third. Kill joints. Kill base of force. Kill options.
—But the fight had now taken him, and left nothing in pride’s place but battlefield rigour.
His charge was swift, and in the span of three breaths he had cleared a line to the giant undead and was upon it. Its black hammer was heavy, its form distended and bulbous beyond humanity. A deep, threatening mystery of what horror they faced lurked within the shadows of its hood as it towered over him, further accentuated by his sudden drop in posture. Intimidating. Plainly and simply so.
He grit his teeth, an open snarl.
He came in the wake of two arrows, loosed by some of the land’s most skilled, aimed true and thus surely giving him this instant he had seized. He held in his hand Reon’s own thunder, cast in the visage of Her Morning Light and still burning with her blessing.
He had but one fear in his heart, knowing the task that stood before him.
All others had been burned away. The boy from the farm that would have once balked, gagged, fled this abomination was dead. There was no room for him any more. For too long, there had not been. In his place stood a man, forged by war, who refused to falter.
Victory would expect nothing less.
He swung Dawn’s Break into the monstrosity’s kneecap, looking to land just after the arrows did, and do it with authority.