Richard Dickerson is a shadow in mage armor some 5 or 6 meters further afield -- ready at arms past the convulsions of Richie’s former researcher, all soot-blackened metal and dark cloth with a crossbow in hand and a stave across his back. He’d raised the crossbow at the researcher’s back on instinct and held it there through the pop and tear of cartilage and flesh, the groove primed with a bolt no longer than a pencil.

Should the researcher fall, the bow stays level, fixed instead on Richard Gecko.

The nerd wielding it has gone snake still and sharp in the face, his eyes glassy bright with recognition in the dark. He isn’t having any trouble seeing either.

Hunched halfway between the Richards is a familiar black cat, all puffy fangs and a forked tongue curled between them. She hisses like a crocodile.