Okay! Ianthe thought, frantic. Needed!
As the writhing, green hulk brought its limbs to bear against the party, Ianthe pulled her sword from its scabbard—and plunged it into the ground behind her. She kept an iron grip on the hilt, bracing herself with the very ground as leverage, and brought up her shield. Perhaps she’d underestimated the shoddy metal, or her own wherewithal, or the intangible yet undeniable effects of Luna’s music, but when that vegetable tendril came down upon her, it found her unyielding.
The impact shook her to the bone and took a chunk of wind from her lungs, but she weathered it. When the worst of the strike was behind her, she yanked her sword free and whirled the edge around to carve herself a path forward.
Baldur was thrown aside, the dragoon—well, Ianthe kept an eye out for her. Behind her, Artemisia had made weapons of the air itself, and behind the monster, Avaddon had begun an assault of his own, simpler in practice but no less effective in execution. A sword—at least, her sword—would be wasted if she used it trying to carve the Malboro apart for glory. She knew her place in this fight, and it wasn’t to wring the sap out of the wretched thing, it was to keep the others safe while they did.
“You fight!” she called back to Luna, but she could only spare a moment’s glance back to the anxious bard before instinct screamed at her to keep her eyes on the giant turnip that was trying to kill them all.
Ianthe weaved forward, shield ahead, trying to keep the thing’s attention narrowed. Big beast, it was, but a beast nonetheless. Vicious, dangerous, but single-minded. Easily distracted.