Too many things were happening at once.

The first--and most alarming--was the fact that Nemesis hadn't slowed her slam downward at him. He barely managed to move aside, and then the stench of corrupted flame and a familiar voice was screaming--Mirac? That was--wrong, Mirac was not meant to be here; magic was not allowed! This new distraction was potentially devastating: as the Sentinel glanced back, Nemesis turned to swing her too-many-horns for his body once again.

The issue he faced now was that he'd lost his halberd--well and truly. Its broad, multi-spined axe head was lodged within the immense beast, and though it might have severed vitals or non-vital organs (he had no way of knowing) she wasn't going down--not yet. She was too big; had too much blood, too much vitality. It would take time to kill her, and in that time, he was now unarmed. And she?

She, with her weapons attached to her face--swords and a shield, right along her skull? She could not be disarmed. The best he could now hope for was to dodge and use what little agility he could, to-

-ah, but he did have his own weaponry, did he not-? It was a risk, though. He could aim for a kill, but she might well achieve it first, given the length of her horns and the power of her charge.

He didn't have time to decide; reflexes chose for him. Instead of trying to drive an arm-blade for Nemesis's eye--which could have also resulted in his death--his instincts drove him to flee, if temporarily; to dive aside, a mad and bloody scramble to get away from his attacker.

It was not the dramatic battle he'd have hoped for; his black and monstrous form was debased, scrabbling in the sand and throwing himself with obvious franticness this way and that. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. But if he were lucky, he could simply let his embedded halberd do the work, and... hope the axe-head had severed something useful.

His breath was coming in rasps, pained ones--each heaving inhale a spear of pain in his ribs. It felt as though they had cracked again, her impact from prior and all the battering and movement since having split the knitting bones.

Yet-... she looked worse. Bleeding heavily, hauling herself to pluck the long shaft of the halberd out with her teeth (and even in his state, still scrambling away, he noted the impressive fortitude this must have required). And--lobbing it his way.

She didn't have the body, the angle, to provide a forceful throw--the halberd was in a loose toss, more than anything. But that didn't mean that a falling axe-blade on a polearm nine feet long wouldn't chop right into him, if it hit--it wasn't a lightweight weapon. He flinched, twisting to try and bring up one spined arm in a clumsy warding gesture, hoping to at least knock it aside, off its path.

The impact was jarring--metal clanging off his forearm--but it didn't stab him, at least; it clattered to the sand and lay there, wisps of shadow coiling upward from it.

He glanced at it, then at Nemesis--who was speaking, but sinking to the ground, and yet-... And yet, she was still growling her warnings, her stoic swear that she would not go down.

The Sentinel turned, hand reaching out, grasping the halberd's haft in his palms; and he stood, slowly (a little buckled over, the other arm rising to clutch the jagged wounds across his chest) and glanced around. Their combined blood had soaked the arena floor, black and red, Oiled and--well, not; as he took a step back, he could feel the warmth still trickling down his legs. It requires... armor, he decided--once he was done with this battle, or--if she stayed down--battles, that would be the first thing he would do.

But in the meantime--Nemesis had spoken, and it seemed foolish to simply ignore it. Perhaps if he could keep her talking, she would simply bleed out faster than he would. Otherwise--he'd have to go to work with the spear, and hope she couldn't turn fast enough to counter him while wounded so.

"The Nemesis has already stopped," he declared, and then--in a deadpan tone, unaware of the phrase's origins--"The Tonka Truck is down."