Luneshale Pass pantano

much goes wrong, in a matter of mere seconds. 

again the waifling dances out of his reach. she’s too nimble. he’s too hurt from before. she is entertaining a game soto’s not interested in playing. 

she won’t commit. she’s a deliberate distraction. he scans her limbs and face and decides she is not a threat. 

he does not have the energy — or interest — to pursue her further. his body is half a tank of gas; no use burning fuel to chase incendiary targets.

he turns to the tangled fray of red and black and grey. sangre’s getting mauled. there’s no hope of him fitting between those flying teeth. he hopes niño has a handle on this.

just out of their chaotic orbit he sees the priestess grab the child. again, he reads: no threat. 

two against one. bad odds for the captain. khusobek and he both carry earlier wounds to battle. it would take little for sangre and grasoso to subdue him; same goes for soto.

his movements must be deliberate. assured in their trajectory towards this battle’s final conclusion: him or khusobek dead.

preferably khusobek, if soto’s opinion counts for anything.

another enters and soto aims his sights upon him. he must not be allowed to unbalance the crashing wave of sangre and niño against their victim. 

a male, monochromatic and in his prime. soto barely has time to register the soft green of his gaze before his limbs fire on their own like buckshot, cleaving teeth honing right for the front of this man’s unsullied face.