There he stood, an old man swaying on the spot, his robes thick; seeping with his own blood—Jester’s touch, of course—and tattered from bolts that ricocheted off the stone walls. At a glance this would look barbaric, a group of seven against one old spell-caster fighting him all at once. In some far-off, shadowy corner, you could hear the springs creak as Nott’s crossbow reloaded, while Beau and Yasha flanked the old wizard’s sides, their mouths pulled in warcry and a growl as they cut and bludgeoned him down. But you could not mistake the maniacal grin spread across Trent Ikithon’s face; how he gnashed his yellow teeth, fingers curling in pleasure as shadow drifted from each bruise and cut on his body, pupils dangerously shrinking into the whites of his eyes.
Caleb staggered to where Fjord stood—throwing balls of green energy that crackled in the air—ignoring Caduceus’s pleads to stay still, but slurring a vague “Thank you,” all the same as he felt his friend’s magic knit the skin on his chest together.
He could feel his body screaming at him to stay down, the sweat profuse on his brow, the ends of his hair singed and sticking to his neck, but he snapped his fingers; sparking the familiar tendrils of smoke and flame that licked up the sides of his forearm.
One last push, he told himself. Weak. Battered. One last push.
