>>5283416>Rolled 8 (1d20)You raise the flamberge, your sword’s twists against his blade’s barbs.. buts your arms stop short. Your sword swings as if veered into a wall, composed of reinforced concrete, hurtled toward you like a bullet, and covered in barbs of iron.
The moment passes in an instant.
The wolf first angles his blade forward and back to wrench the sword from your arms–with a sick screech of steel, the flamberge deforms by sheer force. It flies from your hands and sticks itself into the flowers, another bent sword to line the hills. The sword falls next across your chest. It cuts deep, cold and hot all at once, and your chest grows slick with wet.
You fall to your knees. Morne raises his blade to land the coup de grace, but a rapier runs him through the shoulder before he can. He swings back to meet the dhampir, but their swordplay slips from your sight as you fall to your knees. You feel a gentle hand on your shoulder as the doll grasps for your coat.
“Alphonse..?! Alphonse, don’t move so much..” Noelle’s voice is weak. You slowly raise your head. You can make out four in the distance–Emilia and Ava who engage with Morne, who swings his blade with more grace and cold intent than his furious attacks prior. Millicent angles a shot with her rifle, a silver bullet in the chamber. You can’t help but doubt she’ll take care to mind the two who engage him by blade.
>Attempt to stop Millicent.>Rest for just a second. You’ll need a moment.>Try to go for your rifle.>Write-In. 