[ That sound of distress, that visible reminder of the Drifter's sickness, shakes the Knight back to some semblance of coherence.
The light burns. It pierces them with swords. They roll over, grabbing their weapon and taking shaky steps away, into the light. Pain crawls over them like a plague, weighs them down like chains, but they endure it. They have to.
What was it the Drifter had said? Plants. Through the haze, they slash maniacally, advancing forward. A spray of projectiles bursts forth from their unseen assailant, and they flail their weapon with little regard for finesse; it's enough to hit some away - though one catches them in the side, making them stumble, wounding them.
That, too, is fine. The enemy is a plant. It shoots at anything that comes near. They are familiar with such things, at least - and their enemy is helping them, unwittingly, by attacking them as they come close.
no subject
The light burns. It pierces them with swords. They roll over, grabbing their weapon and taking shaky steps away, into the light. Pain crawls over them like a plague, weighs them down like chains, but they endure it. They have to.
What was it the Drifter had said? Plants. Through the haze, they slash maniacally, advancing forward. A spray of projectiles bursts forth from their unseen assailant, and they flail their weapon with little regard for finesse; it's enough to hit some away - though one catches them in the side, making them stumble, wounding them.
That, too, is fine. The enemy is a plant. It shoots at anything that comes near. They are familiar with such things, at least - and their enemy is helping them, unwittingly, by attacking them as they come close.
They keep going. ]