Kristen adjusted her grip on Sorrow's-Gift, raising it into a defensive stance as warily she approached the mob of possessed cultists blocking the overgrown lane. Early morning sunlight gleamed on the blade's edge as she closed in, instinctively keeping the moss-covered wall to her back. She eyed them carefully; a full dozen, white-knuckled hands clutching a motley assortment of daggers, axes, swords. Each bore the tell-tale look of possession, the hunched posture and poorly-balanced movements that spoke of inhuman intelligences riding unfamiliar bodies. Kristen was close now, close enough to see the way their stretched-taut skin occasionally seemed to writhe and bulge, as though something beneath the surface was shifting position. In the centre of the pack stood the obvious leader, a brute of a man standing a head-and-a-half taller than the rest, the bardiche in his hands missing near half it's shaft. His unblinking eyes followed hers as she approached, until some unseen line was crossed and he gave a sharp, wordless nod.
The possessed lurched to the attack with weapons raised, but already Kristen was springing forward, Sorrow's-Gift held high. With a slashing blow she sent the foremost dropping like a stone into the mist lapping at her knees, feinted left, then opened the throat of the next. With controlled aggression she tore into the pack, constantly moving and weaving, keeping the enemy on the defensive and preventing them from using their numbers to swarm her. Sorrow's-Gift sang in her hands as she deflected her opponents weapons, forced them off-balance, struck killing blows; each parry, slash, and thrust flowing gracefully from the last and into the next.
Kristen had wet her blade on near half the cultists when the battle began to turn against her. A sixth fell to a thrust driven through his breast, but instead of sliding free the blade caught on a rib; and as he fell she was forced to step forward lest Sorrow's-Gift be pulled from her hand. Just as it came loose something at the edge of her vision caught her attention; and she spun about to see the giant striding towards her, the sawn-off pole-arm coming down in a brutal chopping motion. Barely reacting in time, Kristen raised her sword and deflected the savage blow, gritting her teeth as the great blade sheared along it before narrowly missing her. Before he could recover and mount another attack, she reversed her grip, stepped forward past his guard, and drove the pommel into his face with her full weight behind it. Even as their leader stumbled backwards in a welter of blood, the rest of the jackals closed in. Strikes turned into parries and dodges to glancing blows as they harried her relentlessly, wearing down her defences. One of the cultists saw his opportunity and moved in on her off-hand side, slashing out with a long dagger. Kristen spun to face him; but too slow and the corrosion-spotted blade drew a long, shallow cut through leather and into the flesh of her arm. Cursing more with anger than pain she stepped back sharply, lost her footing on a wet rock, and stumbled to the ground. Without thinking she rolled clear and rose into a low crouch, sword raised as her foes loomed above and around her. Glancing sidewise, she saw a figure moving through the mist and smiled.
Emma strode down the lane into view, the hem of her cassock dragging through the wet grass behind her. Cradled in the crook of her left arm was her spellbook, arcane glyphs floating lazily in the air over its open pages; she spoke the formulae for
Spears of the Sun
, and her eyes shone like summer noon, and her hair blazed about her face like a halo. The last syllable left her lips and she raised her right hand, gesturing towards the cultists menacing Kristen. Flashes of searing golden light leapt from her palm, illuminating the dim surroundings and burning away the mist in their path. Each shining dart struck true, blasting the possessed into pillars of soot and ash as their parasite souls burned away in flares of white flame. That left only the leader; and in an instant Kristen threw herself back into the attack, the pain of her wound forgotten. Hurling herself forward she put her full momentum behind the blade, using brute force rather than elegance. The first blow he blocked, barely. The second knocked aside his weapon, leaving him defenceless. The third opened him from collarbone to hip, watery blood and dark ichor pouring out in a gushing torrent. Whatever kind of life had dwelt in him drained away just as fast, leaving only a broken shell; something juddered within the shattered torso, then twitched to a stop like an unwound clock.
"Waiting for the right time to make a dramatic entrance?" Kristen stooped and tore up a handful of wet grass, carefully wiping the blood from Sorrow's-Gift until the watered steel was once more unblemished.
"I
told
you not to go charging off single-handed!" Emma closed her spellbook and let it hang from her hip by the filligreed chain.
She grinned and shrugged, "It's what I-", winced as the gash in her arm made its presence known, "-what I do!"
"Yes, and you see where it gets you?" Opening the satchel slung over her shoulder, she motioned her comrade closer. "Here, let me take a look at that." Emma washed the wound with pure water, smeared it with honey, and bound it carefully in clean white linen. "There now, you'll live."
Kristen pulled her leathers back into place and flexed her arm experimentally. "Aww, not going to kiss it better?"
"Not likely, how often do you think those things cleaned their gear?" She wrinkled her pretty nose. "I might catch something." Kristen slid Sorrow's-Gift back into it's scabbard and they set off once more.