Belialthorn found himself inside a rusted metal room with an arching ceiling. The room shone with a low white light that lit up his surroundings and he looked around, mouth opened, sword in hand when instincts that had been honed while fighting shadow blades screamed at him and he turned sharply, his short sword rising and falling with ease.
A small, sharp projectile fell to the floor in a clatter and Belialthorn stared at it in amusement. Was this supposed to be funny? Sending something as insignificant as this against him?
He didn't have time to analyze it as Alaric stumbled inside, his massive sword a long thing behind him.
Belialthorn gave him room and watched him, not giving warning. He simply trusted in the strength of his companions.
And Alaric proved him right as he snapped the length of his sword forward, slamming the sharp projectile away like an annoying fly.
