All these possibilities have rattled in John's head, wary even in the relief of a concluded fight. It's a favorable outcome, for the moment: both assassins down, unable to accomplish their work. (And unable to bear back any tale of the Commander, traveling back to the palazzo in the company of a mage.)
But that hardly precludes the possibility of finding others waiting for them. They still have the journey back to the palazzo to complete.
John's fingers reach down and across, find the nub of the bolt where it still protrudes from the belt. The scorch of pain is bouncing back and forth, hip to shoulder and back again, but he is not any more inclined to linger than Flint. John knows very well that the foolish instinct to stay holed up in a momentarily safe place is not going to keep them from harm.
Finally, for the first time since they crashed into this little shop, the dark is of some use to them. It masks John's progress across the floor, the cautious hop and levering of his weight along Flint's wake so that his boot nor his crutch betrays him. His grip flexes tight in Flint's hand. They manage, with one close call that sends John lurching hard against the counter but thankfully sees neither of them on the floor.
"Antiva," John spits, somewhere between genuine and mock aggravation, thumb absently working the smears of knuckles across Flint's hand into nothingness as he catches his breath. It's been an agonizingly long night, even before they were set upon. "Where are you hit?"
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But that hardly precludes the possibility of finding others waiting for them. They still have the journey back to the palazzo to complete.
John's fingers reach down and across, find the nub of the bolt where it still protrudes from the belt. The scorch of pain is bouncing back and forth, hip to shoulder and back again, but he is not any more inclined to linger than Flint. John knows very well that the foolish instinct to stay holed up in a momentarily safe place is not going to keep them from harm.
Finally, for the first time since they crashed into this little shop, the dark is of some use to them. It masks John's progress across the floor, the cautious hop and levering of his weight along Flint's wake so that his boot nor his crutch betrays him. His grip flexes tight in Flint's hand. They manage, with one close call that sends John lurching hard against the counter but thankfully sees neither of them on the floor.
"Antiva," John spits, somewhere between genuine and mock aggravation, thumb absently working the smears of knuckles across Flint's hand into nothingness as he catches his breath. It's been an agonizingly long night, even before they were set upon. "Where are you hit?"