She's fine. Thank Sol.

Yes, she would have some explaining to do regarding the Inquisitor uniform. But Clara would be okay. Etoile's eyes narrowed, and she nodded once to the injured woman. She would leave the densus ventus to help shield the Clara as she recovered. But the Thlecian was right: Zestasia wasn't looking so hot. Right, the sun. There must be no ignis for him to use here. And, also, he seemed...not thrilled at her presence anymore, what with the whole Inquisitor thing. Well, that's inconvenient, isn't it? As skeptical as Etoile was regarding Zestasia's intellect, he was a good enough kid. And she would be damned if she let him die, even if he probably wished she would die at this point. She sucked in a ragged breath and resolved to ignore the pain in her throat, nodded once to Clara, and then stood. She murmured a word under her breath and a gap parted in the densus ventus just large enough for her to slip out. And as she did, and the vines rushed to her, she barked out with the voice of one sick of this:

"Gladius ventus!"

Eyes locked on Zestasia as the vines closed in, she grit her teeth, slicing like a hurricane through the rampaging foliage. There was a lull--though not a break--in the vines as the Malum mage and Sparky managed to scratch two treeants out of the fight, and Etoile took the opportunity, breaking through the writhing plants and taking a position above Zestasia. "Kill me later. Get up now." She looked up. Sun, right? She motioned jerkily with her unoccupied hand at some of the branches above: "Acer ventus!"

A blade of slicing wind sheared through the foliage, raining leaves down on the two of them. She grit her teeth, barely holding back a scream, as a bolt of hot pain stabbed down her forehead. She was using a whole lot of magic at the same time when she'd already been drained a fair bit. But still, she continued, each slash of her magic driving another burning nail into her skull. I am going to regret this later.

"I swear to Sol, Zestasia," she hissed as she clumsily batted at an oncoming vine, only barely glancing it and letting it clip in the shoulder, "this had better be worth it."

As she finished the sentence, she made a final cut of air and went down on one knee with a moan of pain. But it was enough, as a lance of sunlight burned through the gashes she'd made in the trees above, blazing through the gloom. She rattled out a ghastly laugh, then pitched forward, only barely catching herself, resting her weight on the tip of her sword and her metal arm. The auras of wind around Clara and her sword went dead, and the vines rushed back in.

It was an acceptable risk to take: Zestasia would be more use in this fight than she would. And she would be just fine in a few minutes, if he managed to fend them off.

If.

Etoile had taken herself out the fight to give Zestasia a moment to recuperate his waning Sol, giving them a better shot at fighting the treeants. Pythia and Laz had created an opening to strike at one of the treeants. Pagonia was happy to have help from his brother, but for now he had to focus on capitalizing the opening. "Zes, its time for a counter attack. Follow my lead." Pagonia spun his sword around before pointing it at the treeant. The second treeant was acting in protection of it's partner but, it was less vines to worry about.

"GET OUTTA MY WAY"

Using every muscle in his legs, the young ice wielding swordsman moved like a beast chasing it's prey. Vines tearing through the air attempting to stop the magi; his blade being the only barrier to stop them. Quick steps, pivots, and feints mixed with his near weightless claymore of ice ripping through vines. His heart raced, beating against his broken ribs and his breath growing heavier by the second. Today Pagonia would show his endurance, dashing past Pythia to reach the treeant; the gaping maw of the monstrous tree being a sheath for Pagonia to thrust his sword into. The next move might not kill it but, it would hurt like hell. "ZES, BURN IT!"

In that moment, Etoile's focus was split three ways.

One: her head was still pounding. It wasn't debilitating any longer--she pulled herself back to her feet, readying Vent de Trancheuse for combat once more. But it certainly wasn't pleasant. She was capable of using magic again--it typically didn't take her very long to recover from overuse, given that aether in the air was all around her, all the time, but if she used anything particularly strenuous she'd probably get the nails-in-her-skull pressure of magical overdraw once again, and every time, it grew more likely that it would be a death sentence. She might need to for the sake of keeping herself and everyone else alive; that didn't mean she'd need to like it.

Two: the vines. They were stymied for a moment. Their sources--the treants--had been momentarily debilitated, and the assault of the vines had slowed to a crawl. There was a chance there, with Pagonia's aid in keeping its mouth pried open for a kill-shot, to permanently shut one of the out of the fight, and out of the world. She couldn't burn it like the younger Calore brother, but a gladius ventus empowered series of rapid strikes to the core with her saber could probably accomplish roughly the same thing, and keeping those vines at bay would be critical in finishing this fight; freeing up Pagonia and especially Sparky would be instrumental in cutting off the head of the snake.

Three: the aforementioned head of the snake. The maleficarum herself had shown up. Etoile wasn't affected in the same way that Zestasia seemed to be by her presence--over the course of her career as an Inquisitor, she'd grown used to dealing with the disgusting aura that a malum maleficarum that had completely given themselves over to anger put out. Had she still been in top form, she would be in her element here, and more than likely, she would have been able to cut down the whole tree instead of just a couple branches without breaking a sweat, and be able to finish the fight right then and there; kill the maleficarum, kill the animating magic. But unfortunately, she'd been neglecting both her magical aptitude and her swordsmanship since her apostasy. She was nowhere even close to peak condition, as evidenced by how poor her magical stamina had become, and she had little doubt that if she tried to fight the maleficarum alone in her current state, she'd be summarily slaughtered.

What do I prioritize here?

Then the moment passed, and she made her choice. Zestasia would just need to fend for himself. Fighting a maleficarum was one thing; fighting a maleficarum and two treants at the same time was another. It was past time for them to go.

"Gladius ventus!"

The aura of wind around her saber returned, and she felt almost like herself again. And she tore across the forest towards Pagonia and the treant, dodging an errant vine here and there. She didn't know how long Pagonia would be able to hold it open.

But however long it would be, it wouldn't be long enough. Her leg wound was catching up to her, and she was slowing. This maleficarum wasn't stupid. She might just redirect her attention briefly at the weakened ventus-user. A bolt of malum energy in her injured leg would make it almost impossible for her to walk, and certainly, she wouldn't be able to make it to the treant in time.

So, hating how quickly these decisions needed to be made--is it so much to ask to have time to THINK?--she thrust her hand out behind her, and bellowed:

"Impulsus ventus!"

A burst of air surged out behind her and blasted her forwards, carrying her off her feet and rocketing her straight towards the treant's open mouth. All she had time for was a single swipe of her sword to sever a final vine trying to stop her flight, and a shouted "OUT OF THE WAY!" to Pagonia.

Then she struck, and she struck true. Vent de Trancheuse's ventus-empowered blade sunk deep into the treant. She twisted as she went, planting her feet against the rough bark and adding her own muscles' force into the blade's strike. She swirled the wind-assisted blade through the pulpy insides of the treant, her teeth bared in a snarl.

Then, she felt a pop of magic as her sword found the monster's magical core. A rush of staticky magic flew past her in an existential scream, and the vines went limp. She toppled from the dead treant's mouth and forced herself to her feet, flicking her saber out beside her. The nails found her head again, and her teeth clenched harder.

One down.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Pagonia held his blade in the treant's maw, his mind wandering off for only a bit. The fights had grown weary on his body, bruises formed on his arm, calluses taking shape on his palm, and mouth getting drier every minute; this feeling was something he hadn't dealt with since sparring matches with Master Garland. Even Master Garland would prove to be tougher then any tree monster. For Pagonia, it wasn't just his body remembering the fatigue of sparring but his mind too. He could feel his mental process slowing down for just a moment; a moment that extended to the end of time itself, a moment that presented itself as a memory of losing his family all over again. Now he had to fight against forces presumably beyond him to protect that one family member he had left, a boy so important that fate deemed it so that they would meet again on a random barge.

"OUT OF THE WAY!" Etoile's voice came screaming through the air.

His mind snapped back to reality as he turned his head to see the air magi wielder flying straight at him. Where could Zes be? For now Pagonia would have to ignore that and get the hell out of Etoile's way. Gripping his sword tightly, instead of just pulling it out, the man pulled it to the side, ripping through the side of the treant's maw. He landed on his feet, air rushing past his head, just barely missing getting his body torn asunder by the hurricane force that was Etoile. He was intrigued at her sword skills and turned his frown into a smile to finally be step ahead in this fight.

"Nice form." Pagonia placed his head on Etoile's shoulder in a comforting way. "Now let's-"

The eldest Calore turned his head to see Zes being assaulted by the witch, who looked to be around his age, if not younger. He wouldn't let his brother be harmed again. His hand gripped Etoile's shoulder just a bit tighter to show his emotions were starting to flare. Well that was until Pythia made herself into Zestasia's defender. Without uttering a word, the smile back on his face thanks to him knowing his brother would be relatively safe, Pagonia began to walk forward.

Taking blade in hand again, Pagonia placed one hand on the blade section. A chill rushed over the area surrounding the sword, the ice shattering several places. He moved the sword back behind him before swinging it forward with all the strength he could muster. The ice broke from the shard, launched through the air like arrows loosed from a bow, all aimed the treant. This technique wasn't to end the fight but it would hurt enough to give Laz a shot.

---

A surge of pure malice ripped through the air, and it tore at Clara's very being.

She was already on the floor, hands and knees pressed to the soil in an attempt to actually get up and get moving again. Now she just felt stuck. Couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

The malum energies clung to every part of her body, muscles, bone and all, it swarmed in her throat and seethed in her gut as if she'd been force fed poison, as if she was decaying from the inside out, and it smelled and tasted putrid and wrong and she could feel it everywhere, all over, and it burned, gods, what's happening to me? A terrible shiver overtook Clara's body, as if she'd been hurled into the rapids of a freezing cold river. It was overwhelming.

So she shut her eyes as tight as she could, as if it would somehow make everything disappear. The pain, the nausea, the dread, the fear, all of it. Just as she had done all those years ago. Just as she had done when the inquisitors came after her family, and she couldn't do anything about it.

Her hand clawed at the dirt beneath her.

And the soil hummed under her fingertips.

Something murmured in the back of Clara's frenzied mind, a voice that was not her own, but one she recognised immediately. It was a voice she hadn't heard in years, one she feared she had long forgotten.

"…so you must hear it, feel it, embrace it. Open your senses to the earth, and it will lend you its strength."

Mother. She cried out to the distant memories, but heard nothing in return. Her fingers dug deeper into the soil.

"…which is why you should never forget your blood. Your people."

Clara took a deep breath. Several deep breaths. Her body started protesting against the waves of malum that had infested her, and her mind tried calling out beyond the malicious blockade.

"This is the one thing they can never take away from you."

And Ifrise Forest whispered back.

Clara opened her eyes, and slowly rose to her feet. She still ached all over, still felt nauseous, the malum energies still buzzed in her head like an angry wasp nest. But she had to power through. The fight wasn't over yet.

Soon enough she made it back to the group, just stopping short of where Pagonia, Lazulin and Etoile stood. Clara gave them a weak smile, when really her body was rearing to get rid of this crazed maleficarum and get out of this hellhole of a forest. Her ether danced over her skin, ready to sprout, and her eyes burned bright with a desperate determination.

"I'm no good a fighter like the rest of you, but I'm sure you know what I can do by now," she croaked, the taste of the maleficarum's ether still hanging from the tip of her tongue. She then directed her gaze to Etoile: "so if there's anything I can do to help defeat that, then you can bet on every god above that I'll gladly take the chance."

She'd be damned if she let anymore kids die in front of her again.

It was a good thing that Pagonia put his hand on Etoile's shoulder; otherwise, in that moment—the absurd adrenaline starting to leak out of her bloodstream—she probably would have fallen. She grit her teeth tightly, struggling to keep herself upright. Don't you fall, Etoile. Don't you dare FUCKING fall. Her breaths rattled in and out, rasping against her scratched-up throat. When she spoke, her voice was just as scratchy, and withering. "Don't patronize me, Pagonia. I haven't practiced properly in months. I know full well my form is garbage." Her breaths kept heaving in and out, eyes narrowed to slits, concentrating on not feeling the nails in her head. No magic for a few minutes, at least. So...her mind started to race. No magic, at least for a while. She couldn't cast any spells. Her leg wound was starting to bother her again, after that run; blood was starting to leak down her leg. At least until she could deal with that, no intense combat. No magic for squad support. No direct intense combat against the maleficarum. So what could she do?

"I'm no good a fighter like the rest of you, but I'm sure you know what I can do by now, so if there's anything I can do to help defeat that, then you can bet on every god above that I'll gladly take the chance."

Etoile turned, and for a moment her head spun. Clara. The dome of wind she'd erected around the Thlecian had kept her safe, and she'd managed to haul herself off the ground. And here she was. Just as incapacitated as Etoile was, if not more, and yet still offering everything she was. Etoile's teeth gnashed. She needed to do something. She needed to do something! She needed to DO SOMETHING!

"Glad you're safe, Clara. Can you do me a favor?" She breathed deeply, taking her sabre and slashing through her trousers and the makeshift bandage she'd wrapped there, revealing the full extent of the wound on her inner thigh. It was ugly, it was painful, and the blood wouldn't stop coming. "Gotta stop this from bleeding. Don't care if it hurts, I need to know I'm not going to bleed out. So take some of that crystal and just...jam it in there, okay?"

She heaved in another deep breath and straightened up, blotting out the pain. She didn't know whether Clara was going to crystal up her leg. But it didn't really matter if she did or didn't. She walked with the barest limp up to Sparky and Zestasia, settling into a graceful combat stance. She opened her mouth, then thought for a moment. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't give orders. Sparky was impetuous. Just because she was in combat didn't mean she wouldn't dispute, and even a momentary lapse of concentration—for either and both—could spell disaster. She wasn't the best fighter right now, but...she had her mind. So she didn't give orders. She gave information, voice low, hoarse, and fast.

"Zes, if you need to recharge, sunlight is to your eight o' clock, about twenty feet away. Sparks, better to use your sword as a foci than a weapon right now." Her headache had abated some. Hmm. A couple minutes and she'd have a few spells left in her. "Malum maleficara externalize some of their magic, you can probably feel it in the air. Their ether is always open. Better to hit them with raw magic over using a physical weapon, they're more susceptible to it."

She took a deep breath, fighting past her sore throat. Her voice lowered even further to barely over a breath, pitched only to reach the two next to her as the maleficarum clawed her way out of the tree Pythia had launched her into. "I'm mostly useful right now in my capacity as a decoy. I'll do my best to draw her attention, see if I can give you two a clear shot." Another, final deep breath. And then, teeth clenched tightly and sword held in a long-practiced grip—the pain rippling through told her thigh told her that Clara had accreted her crimson crystal there—she ran at the maleficarum.

I really hope I can trust them.

---

Once Clara had halted Etoile's bleeding and let the woman charge forward, chaos resumed.

With terrifying speed the maleficarum lashed out, weaving through wisps of malum left in the wake of her attacks. But just as fast, if not even faster, was the young Pythia, ripping through the dark haze with tempestuous force. Her combined assaults with Zestasia and Etoile spiralled into a wild torrent of ether that would tear Clara apart if she were foolish enough to meddle as she was now. 

Instead she skeetered around the edges of their skirmish and kept a watchful eye, hoping for something, anything to turn the fight over in their favour, however trivial. Looking over her shoulder to Lazulin and Pagonia, it seemed the last treeant was as good as dead. Now, if only the pain in her injured arm would wither away along with it. Just thinking about it forced another wince through Clara's lips. The thought of beating the last breath out of that stupid tree had never sounded so enticing as it did now.

The next explosion shook her out of it.

Pythia was on the floor now, out of reach of the others, smoke clinging to her coat where she'd been hit. The little maleficarum cackled as darkness coiled around her fingertips, preparing for slaughter.

There it was again, that tugging in her chest. Not again. Not this time. Clara could already feel a spring in her step as her breathing hastened and her muscles prepared to—

Oh.

It was coming for her.

Clara pivoted. Then looked away. Then ran. Ran, ran away as fast and as far as she could. What else could she possibly do, against that, like this? Not even a few paces away from where Clara had just been standing and the humming of malum claws had come so close it drowned out the sound of her own racing heart. If only her legs could race just as fast, just as ferociously.

And even after I said I'd help...!

There was no reason for Clara to look back. She knew what was coming. It would get closer and closer until it was close enough to slash at her, slash through her skin deep, down deep to the bone, and then—

Ah, wait... maybe if I could—

The dark magi swung down and tore into Clara's back, ripping through her woolen shawl and straight past the innermost layers of her clothing. Scraps of red flew into the air as she fell to the ground with a heavy thud, unmoving.

There was the shortest moment of silence as the maleficarum stood above Clara's limp body, how fortunate that she had finally landed her first serious blow. But it took an even shorter time to notice that something wasn't quite right. A split second in which the the sunlight caught a stone's type of glimmer peeking through the layers of shredded fabric. A split second that would not go unused.

Clara burst into motion, swinging her torso off the ground and to the side, letting a crystalised arm swoop low through the momentum. Whatever the outcome of her attack, she hoped it would buy some time for someone, anyone, to do something.

It's over. Breathe. Release.

With a grunt, Etoile fell down to one knee, all the adrenaline of the fight bleeding out of her system. She'd nearly died. She had been very certainly about to die. She'd been so fast...she swore under her breath as blood began to bubble from her wounds again, Clara's red crystals having melted away. She was so careless. So out of practice. If it hadn't been for—

"Pythia!"

The shout burst from her almost without conscious thought, and she broke into a limping run, heedless of her hurt leg. It had been fine thus far, it would stay fine another minute more. As she arrived, she slid down next Pythia and examined her worriedly. She was conscious, she was breathing, she was staring hatefully, and didn't look to be bleeding. But one could never tell with malum magicks. It could have injured her internally, and that would be harder to see. Come on, Sol, cut her some some slack.

It escaped Etoile that she wasn't acting rational or normal. It escaped her that Pythia disliked and distrusted her, and she felt the same in return. It escaped her that it was the first time she'd even used the girl's name. Escaped her that the longer she stayed around this group, the more likely she died horribly from some not-altogether-misconstrued revenge against the Inquisition. Escaped her that the maleficarum was still alive, still speaking. All of it faded away. Her vision tunneled down on the girl, and for that fraction of a moment, all she saw was just that: a girl. A child. She'd saved Etoile's life, and had been hurt—the older woman didn't know how badly yet—as a result. A bitter tang filled her mouth, and she suddenly felt a keen sense of responsibility for this. Wasn't it an adult's job to protect children, and not the other way around? She would need to be better in the future.

"Pythia..."

Words that had seemed so easy a moment before escaped her, and she couldn't even remember what they had been. What was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to do? She snapped back to herself, and she shifted slightly, suddenly uncomfortable. When she spoke again, her voice was brusque as usual. The worry and tenderness that had been there in Pythia's name was gone, and she appraised her with a soldier's eye for injury. She stared into the girl's eyes, trying to gauge whether they were working properly, whether or not she could focus. "Numbness, weakness, tingling, headache, shortness of breath?"

And then a tiny voice inside her, ignored:

Please let her be okay.

"Finally."

Pagonia felt a weight lift from his shoulders as the witch made her exit. For hours now, the team of magi had been fighting, using their magic back to back, and forcing their bodies to ignore injuries. His eyes shifted from side to side, scanning the area, visually checking on everyone. For the moment, everyone seemed to be relieved, some hurt from the last fight, but no one was seriously inured. Zes was a focal point and the boy was talking with Etoile, giving his older a brother a sigh of relief. His heart slowed in pace, the adrenaline pumping through his veins eventually died down, and the pain in his shoulder and chest began to swell. He had taken some punishment during the fights to the point that he thought he was going to kick the bucket. The fear of Zes losing him was something he could put behind him for now.

"Hey Clara, you alright?"

Pagonia sheathed his sword, his left arm barely able to help hold the sheath due to the shoulder issue. The swordsman threw himself to ground, landing on his butt with a plodding sound; Pagonia was done with the day and needed a rest the size of a whale. He just wanted the day to be over with, but finding a place to rest would be a journey in of itself. At this current moment, he needed to make sure that Clara was okay to walk even if he needed to use his own shoulder to help keep her up. Sitting in this forest would be a death sentence if the witch wasn't an indication of what's to come next. Plus his own magic had been largely drained from so many techniques used, he wasn't prepared for another fight involving magical combat. For now Pagonia needed to keep a smile on his face, and show everyone that their situation would get better, even if he didn't truly feel that way. Morale was a big thing for any group of people.

“What about you? You aren’t going to bleed out after this, are you?”

Etoile's face twisted for a moment, almost as though fighting against itself. After a moment, a wry smile crept across it. "Hurts, but I'll be fine. Pride is more wounded than anything." She took a deep breath, retrieving her shredded cloak from the floor where it still lay, then sat down heavily next to the girl. The smile winked out as soon as it had arrived, replaced with a grim flat line. "All that being said, still better deal with it before it does become a problem."

With a few cuts from her sword, she'd sliced off a piece enough to serve as a bandage. Then, washing the clots of blood and dirt out again with what little water she had left in her waterskin—setting her teeth grinding—she quickly tied it in place with a few deft knots. The blood, flow renewed by the washing and by the crystalline block that had sat in it recently, immediately began to stain it as she sucked in her breath. "Hopefully, that'll hold."

Then the kid came up to her, overflowing with awkwardness and a forced laugh. And then she just...looked at him. Crossly, of course, but not the glare that he was probably expecting. Her gaze was hard, but level, as she weighed his apology. And only after a few moments had passed and she was sure he'd finished that she replied quietly, with a voice just the same: hard, but level. "No. You were correct to dislike and distrust me." Looking back and forth between the two of them, she took a deep breath, doing her best to speak calmly despite the pain in her leg. "I believe I owe you two an explanation." The rest of the group could possibly come later, but if she didn't speak now, then she wasn't sure if she would find herself able to again. And if nothing else, she wanted to explain herself to the paranoid Pythia. So she heaved in another breath.

"You are correct. I am—or rather, was—an Inquisitor. Perhaps a more complete introduction is in order." Now that she was at rest, she pulled the toggle of the severed cloak from around her throat, tossing it languidly into the dirt to rest next to its other torn piece. With it out of the way, she pulled her sleeve up until her shoulder was exposed, then rapped her left knuckles on the gleaming silver of her artificial arm before gently tracing around the crest with a finger. "My full name is Etoile Amélie Lécuyer, of the Iquenos Lécuyer noble house, daughter of Thibaud and Marianne. My brother is Edmund Lécuyer; the seventeenth head of the family, after my parents pass." Another deep breath, as she dredged up old memories. "I joined the Inquisition on my sixteenth birthday, and served for a full decade." She leaned backwards, unwilling or unable to look at either of their faces. Her voice softened, and she spoke more quietly. The muscles in her face tensed. "I thought it was the correct path. Until I learned of the deception of the Archon regarding the Nsiferum dynasty, and the injustice of their extermination." Her voiced hitched before the last word, and she swallowed heavily.

She looked up at the leaves above her. "I am not proud of who I have been. But what is done is done. I can only move forward now." The lump in her throat went ignored as she took one last long breath and then sat up straight again and looked them in the eyes. Her eyes slid past Zestasia and came to rest locked on Pythia's. They were both young. Too young to be traveling on their own. And the reunion with Pagonia only confirmed things. Her voice hardened again, quiet and bitter. "Kill me if you wish. In my state, I doubt I could stop you, and revenge would be justified. But it will not bring your families back. I have no love for the Imperium, I am more useful to you alive, and I will not go quietly."