Ordinarily, the demons don't fight amongst themselves.
This is one of several things wrong with the everything wrong with this situation; ordinarily, demons don't look like people, and people don't break trees, and there are a lot of questions which are going to need pressing answers, and soon. The inclination of her companions (certainly the poor soldier who took a shield to the face) will probably be to kill first and rifle through pockets later, but that sounds inefficient (in finding anything out) and difficult (he broke a tree), so
when Blackwall turns, shield out, Gwenaëlle leaps and kicks off it, boot square between the stranger's shoulders for a moment before she lands hard on his shoulder, knee hooking under his chin in the friendly, implied suggestion that he be more grateful it's a knee and not a knife. Sideways with a grip on his helmet, she flings her hand (and the anchor) up towards the rift and braces herself on his neck (he broke a tree) when the connection jolts her.
At this distance, the pained sound ordinarily hidden by the clatter of weaponry and terror-shrieks is discernible, an unladylike grunt swallowed quickly.
“Is that a demon Qunari?”
“It's a helmet,” Gwenaëlle reports, witheringly, beneath the explosion of a closing rift.
no subject
This is one of several things wrong with the everything wrong with this situation; ordinarily, demons don't look like people, and people don't break trees, and there are a lot of questions which are going to need pressing answers, and soon. The inclination of her companions (certainly the poor soldier who took a shield to the face) will probably be to kill first and rifle through pockets later, but that sounds inefficient (in finding anything out) and difficult (he broke a tree), so
when Blackwall turns, shield out, Gwenaëlle leaps and kicks off it, boot square between the stranger's shoulders for a moment before she lands hard on his shoulder, knee hooking under his chin in the friendly, implied suggestion that he be more grateful it's a knee and not a knife. Sideways with a grip on his helmet, she flings her hand (and the anchor) up towards the rift and braces herself on his neck (he broke a tree) when the connection jolts her.
At this distance, the pained sound ordinarily hidden by the clatter of weaponry and terror-shrieks is discernible, an unladylike grunt swallowed quickly.
“Is that a demon Qunari?”
“It's a helmet,” Gwenaëlle reports, witheringly, beneath the explosion of a closing rift.