A lance of ice formed in the air above Famfrit, cold mist lazily drifting off its surface. “Rise to your feet, Bodvar. There is not much time to be bought on your knees.” Erroix let the magick-wrought shard drop, scattering icy crystals in all directions as it slammed into Famfrit’s form. Bodvar grabbed his axe and bolted, dodging around the large chunks of ice sliding all over the spire-top, while steam and mist congealed to obscure the large spirit-form. A resounding tone echoed across the fighting ground as Bodvars axe impacted with Famfrit’s magickal weapon. His strength was barely enough to shift the massive urn-like weapon. As it swung upwards, a plume of water erupted, soaring over Nora’s head, covering most of the surface in a deluge of water. Had she been hit she would have easily gone over the side, if she had even survived. The impromptu rain subsided. Bodvar had retreated outside the range of Famfrits swing.
The spirit swung its weapon down, a bell-like noise ringing out as it settled on the stone. “Enough time has been bought. There is no need to continue this.”
“What are you talking about?” Bodvar had raised his axe again and was raring to go.
“You need not understand my words. You can see for yourself.” Famfrit faded away as quickly as it had appeared.
Famfrits parting words did not make much sense to Nora, but she still breathed a sigh of relief. Spirits as strong as these were not trifling matters, so escaping like they had was a blessing.
The remaining fog from their battle still obscured the rest of the lighthouse, only the blue light of the crystal poking through. Across the distance Nora could only make out 3 shapes, 2 of them on the ground.
They will be unsuccessful.
The only shape that still stood made some indistinct movement and a ear-splitting screeching blasted out across the spire. The light dimmed and the fog immediately began drifting away, swirling as a new gust of wind began dragging it away to reveal the scene before them. Deormund and Dah’Marra were both lying on the ground, ribbons of blood covering the stone around them. The ranger still held on to her bow, but Deormunds spear was lying half-way over the far edge of the roof. The gigantic crystal still stood in its mounting, but the blue light had dimmed and a great scar had nearly separated it from its lower half. In the middle of it all, Volkmarr stood straight with his terrible sword, its tip dripping with blood, held in one gauntleted hand.