Like two runners who have spent their reserves, went slack, and lost the will to excel, so us, we ardent mix of disciplines. The Underworld was like a furnace stoked by souls, blasting sweat into our eyes as we swung at demons, as I pulled my bowstring back, back, back to pierce the heart of the foe. In that mad season of melee, there was was only the barest reckoning of who was foe, who was friend.
It took two to three on one to take out the demons who fought with hungry tenacity. I saw a glimpse of The Shining Lady parrying twin cleavers, or so it seemed; nobody should have to melee a tyrant of a demon alone, so I sent a few arrows his way, stomach, shoulder, neck. They stuck, quivering, and the lady pressed forward. I turned to address more woes, and lost sight of her.
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