Quoted By:
"Astur, <span class="mu-i">handle it!</span>" you caw.
"Already doing it!" she tells you as her halberd crashes against the Alfred's steely bones.
Even with the many enchantments that your uncle wove into his servants to keep them from falling apart, the axe head bites through polished white and creeping tendrils of red to splinter the skeleton's shoulder. Magic can only do so much do defend against the brute force of steel and iron, after all. Not when it must also keep the bones in motion with the vague semblance of intelligence all so-called "mindless" undead possess.
Robbed of its right arm, the Alfred staggers from the blow and nearly loses its balance. Astur gives it no time to recover itself, smoothly recovering the momentum of her slash with a crescent sweep that leaves her weapon's spearhead pointed straight for the stumbling skeleton's ribs. Holding it straight as a rod of iron, she rushes forward with a thrust in perfect form, taking three steps in the blink of an eye and piercing the Alfred straight through.
The spike at the halberd's head catches nothing but air... <span class="mu-i">just as planned</span>.
The crescent of its axe-head hooks just beneath a rib, while its thorn prevents the thrust from slipping uselessly between the ribs. Rather than her weapon being locked inside of its ribcage where it could do nothing, it instead holds the skeleton's body at a distance from Astur, well beyond the reach of its bony arms and claws. She and it dance for leverage and control for a moment, but dry bones and creeping mold are a feather compared to the mass of a guardswoman who stands proud at a well muscled six-foot-three.
Once Astur has control, her feet snap to a new position, her stance shifting into a wide and solid foundation. Using one hand as a fulcrum for the other, she lifts the skeleton into the air in a wide arc by its ribcage, bringing the Alfred crashing down onto the floor as if she were driving a stake through granite with a heavy mallet. All the while, a wordless battlecry erupts from her throat.
"<span class="mu-i">Haaaaaaaaah!</span>" she roars. A sound loud enough to fill the tunnel... had you not been about your own work.
As Astur deals with the red-crusted Alfred, you draw your favorite talon from its place upon your hip. Its fourteen inches of steel cannot do much of anything against a skeleton; it's rather useless against a foe not made of flesh. Instead you hold it in a reversed grip, raising up its brass hilt. Shaped in the likeness of a bluebird's leg, its talons grip tightly upon a sky-blue orb that swirls with cloudy mists.
Through it, you can weave spells more complex than the many simple cantrips your father taught you. Sewing together threads of dream and shadow, you gently chirp the magic words that finish the spell and it life beyond your grasp: "Mihi kardi'i tawa jafif muharan na'nud, Riman Anuead: <span class="mu-s">[Af h'Kiila Taea Aquf]</span>"
