Amy was an infuriatingly nimble combatant. She was neither the first magus nor the first hand-to-hand specialist he had battled, but he had never faced anyone so capable of both. Every time he came anywhere close to her, she would immediately leap backwards with minimal effort- maintaining his position at her optimal range.
In their scuffle, he had made several important observations. For one; she was nimble- easily capable of staying at her preferred distance from her target. Secondly; she was most capable at a medium range- at which distance he could neither prepare for- nor dodge, her lethal projectiles. Well... a regular duelist might not have been capable of it, but Bartholomew was no ordinary combatant. His sword had, however, suffered for the constant deflections of the high-speed, high-energy projectiles. His third observation was, dishearteningly, the most important feature in regards to her combative abilities, fore it seemed like the girl was just as lively now as when their battle had begun.
She stood atop the broken stairs- staring down at her heaving, exhausted companion with a slight smile. He was covered in scratches and small wounds caused by the shattered projectiles- some of which still stung from within his cold, inflamed skin. He held the dented and bent sword ahead of him and shone a grin of his own as he questioned in between his heaves for air: “Have you... had... enough yet?” He hadn’t even cut as much as a thread of her uniform, much less succeeded in harming her. What he had done was stall her for long enough for Kerras to get inside the manor and unleash whatever madness he had prepared for Gerathar... it would have to do.
Amy cocked her head and looked him up and down his bloody shirt curiously. “I could ask you the same, but you seem to be enjoying yourself. Have you always been so prone to masochism?” He could hardly deny that he was, in fact, having a measure of fun- submerging himself in this rare outlet for his welling frustrations.
Bartholomew took a threatening step up on the stair and spoke; “Oh, I suppose I have. I would not have made it as far as I have if I hadn’t learned to embrace the pain.” He wished for nothing more than to sprint up the stairs and crush the bright-white teeth grinning down at him. This wretched beast was, as the good Sir Kerras had said, every bit as guilty as Gerathar was and he would be damned if-
She reached into her cleavage to retrieve something glinting a bright blue- a vial. Unknowing of what to expect, he took a step back and readied himself to deflected another projectile. “What are you doing?” He asked.
She uncorked the small vial and spoke; “I never imagined you would be an actually capable swordsman. I am nearly drained, but thankfully; Doctor Thomas has been working tirelessly for us.” Sensing that it would not be in his best interest to let her go through with whatever she had planned, he began his journey up the lengthy, broken stairs, but it was already too late. She drained down the vial with greedy gulps before he had even made it half-way. Its effects were immediately visible- both on her and the atmosphere around his opponent. Every blood-vessel and nerve in her face, arms and chest lit up with a bright-blue glow the same color as her eyes- pushing back the umbral cloak shrouding their dimly lit battle.
“Fuck...” He muttered as he saw the disturbances in the air around her- rapidly cooling air that formed a slight barrier of mist about three feet away from her body. Even from down the stair; he could feel the cold emanate from her flesh. She raised her fingers to her mouth to form a funnel and before he could continue his efforts to close the distance between them, she had begun casting her unusual magics. His skin burned as the freezing breeze blew out from between her fingers and assaulted his entire being. The blood on his shirt and pants froze and solidified immediately- the sweat and humidity clinging to his hair and skin crackled and crystalized. As uncertain and bewildered as he was whenever it pertained to magic, he knew one thing- he could only think of one thing: "This is going to kill me".
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That was... until he heard her. A giggle from behind Bartholomew’s back stole Amy’s attention for less than half a second, but as soon as she saw the deep-blue eyes hidden in the obfuscating mist of frozen smoke; it was too late. She immediately ceased her cast- her eyes grew distant and her arms dropped to her sides. Not one to look a gift whore in between her legs; Bartholomew continued up the stair- swinging the blade across her neck to sever through skin, muscle and bones with the full might of his rage-fueled surge of strength.
Amy’s head thudded against the steps with wet, bloody slaps as it journeyed down to where her gaze had been firmly affixed only a moment previous. The rest of her beautiful body fell forwards and unceremoniously slid on the shattered stairs until it came to a halt- midways down its journey. He, too, had heard the giggle- that familiar voice that had stolen away Amy’s attention and allowed him the finishing blow. He scanned the emptiness outside, but saw no one aside from the cooling corpse on the stair... Odd. He was certain he had heard something so... familiar.
Bartholomew had stopped to look at the mass-suicide in the arboretum when he heard the several sets of approaching footsteps. Maribelle and Bess were the first to hurriedly step out from the library- soon to be followed by the grinning Neda before lastly; Asrael stepped out- brandishing a satisfied, smug smirk.
“Sir Kerras... what-” Bartholomew motioned for the dead guardsmen. Asrael’s green eyes grew distant for a moment, before he eventually shook his head and answered; “I do not know what happened here... we will have to philosophize later. First; take the females away... with their favored pet dead, I expect some of his Masters might come running. I must find the small, fat one. I will meet you in the tavern once we are done here.”
Before Bartholomew could signal his understanding, Neda raised her voice to object; “I’ll help you look. I-” Asrael shook his head.
“You will go with Bartholomew. I’ve work to do and you would only get in my way.” Her palms curled into fists at her sides. She looked down on the floor and for a moment, he thought she might once again speak her simple mind... only to remain silent.
“I think we have all learned a lesson from this.” Asrael muttered as he turned for the door leading into the main body of the house. As he turned; the desert-dweller's courage returned for her to say;
“Y-you tried to pawn me off on him...” He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the distant door- considering her words. He had, as a matter of fact, sought to do just that. But the girl had lived- and provided him an opportunity to kill the wretched man. He spoke over his shoulder;
“Yes. I did.” He broke from his stupor and began his stride towards the door while commanding over his shoulder; “Go home and see to it the girl is fed. She may be of use and if she is; I need her rested for what is to come.” Neda felt her heart flutter for a moment, before realizing... he wasn’t talking about her.
“Wait, what girl? Hey! What girl!?”
Bartholomew tapped her should to meet her furrowed brow with a solemn smile- sensing an opportunity to celebrate his victory. “Before we leave... Do you know what a poppy looks like?”