ORIGIN

She was getting back to her feet.

Unbelievable, but there it was: and he did not know if she would collapse, a moment later, or if she would lurch back into brute-horned combat.

He chose to play it safe, for now, as much as he preferred a head-on style: he was learning the hard way (through first the bull, and now this) that such things were not always the best decision. That didn't mean he was pleased at having to run away.

But he took his defensive stance, ready to brace himself for... whatever came next.

Would he need it? Only time would tell.

...And judging by that sudden roar--as dimmed as it was--there would not be much of that time.

Unlike Nemesis--a stranger to Draco, he thought--he knew Draconua. He had spoken with her. He had seen her rage--seen her get stuck in the aperture and writhe and claw and attempt to fight the tunnel itself. He had not seen her magic all that much, but he knew what it could do, knew that she held power that even Master Vargas was hesitant to provoke.

And so when she lashed out, when the first of the ground began to shake and tremble, the Sentinel widened his eyes--and turned to run. It was not a strong run--it was a staggering limp, half buckled over, as the ground thrust up and shattered behind him. The halberd he used as a cane, a support, jamming its haft-butt into the dirt with every step. His breath came wheezing in his own ears, his many eyes locked firmly upon the far side of the arena. If only he could get there-... He pitied Nemesis, briefly, surprisingly.

He even spared a glance back. Hesitated. Would she be caught in the shattering earth-? Crushed, mauled, chewed by stone? If he could carry her--perhaps he would have. It was one thing to lose a battle, but this-...

...But no, she had not yet been struck. And the way the arena floor rippled and dislodged itself in massive, heaving shards--the way gaps opened in the ground, sand rushing down to fill the holes--it was only a matter of time before it caught one of them.

The Sentinel spared her a warning: "It must... flee. They must... both flee." And then he looked forward again, and continued his hunched-over run.

He turned, glancing back. She was running, heeding his warning-... how was she running? Even in his haze, his pain, he was impressed. Her fortitude was astonishing. Her strength, amazing. It was probably a shame she was not of the Forge--he didn't really think that way, himself, so he couldn't really be certain. But he did know that if one of them did not drop soon, it might be him.

It might be him in a half a second, anyway.

So he chucked his spear after her--a wild throw, not inaccurate but desperate, and then (without watching to see whether it would hit) dropped to all fours to continue to run away. If it hit, it might tear through her a second time--it wouldn't do the damage the impale from beneath had done, but it might make her bleed out that much more quickly. He could only hope.

They seemed to be heading in opposite directions now, but the churning earth was over, and so he took solace in the fact that she would at least not die to Draconua's magic. Him-? If that flailing limb now erupting so close by him hit, it would squeeze him into submission (or worse) and it would all be over.

And now for the sink-or-swim, clinch moment of these next few seconds: Nemesis had again avoided Draconua's strike, but that flailing, oily limb was far too close for comfort, and slamming down toward him.

The Sentinel shifted, his jaw hanging open now, gasping for air as he scrambled on all fours. He was faster this way--built for it, really, and was it some pride or presumption that kept him fighting on two? -but the tentacle was lurching for him at impossible speeds, following his own trail of dripping Oil.

He shifted direction as fast as he could, skidding in the arena dirt, leaving dust behind him as he zigged and zagged--and heard (and felt!) a heavy, wet slap behind him in the sand.

Wheeze, stumble, gasp, relief mixing with dread--what would come next-?

He skidded to a shaking halt and turned back to see if he were safe--and to watch for the next hint of danger.