Beware the Ides of March
Sigtrygg let out a holler of victory as the beast was stumbled, possibly hobbled. The viking was intent on making this a permanent state. To ground the monstrosity and make it easy for the rest to slaughter. Taking his found axe in hand, and charging forward. More shouts and insults in Norse ensued, of various levels of form, slang and vitriol. The Norseman charged for the unbuckled leg, opposite of Myra. Using his momentum and everything he could, Sigtryg swung the axe and bit into the pale flesh of the monster's leg at the knee. Flesh and tendons were rent and torn until steel hit bone and embedded itself deep. Far too deep to ever be recovered by mortal hands.
The beast's vile blood spilled out to join the blood of uncountable others in the bloodsoaked clay of the battlefield, and over Sigtryg's armor. They were in desperate need of cleaning already, as was he. A less experienced fighter might let the fervor and joyous feeling of a successful blow get to them, but Sig was anything but inexperienced. The shouts of the strange non-human spurred him on instantly, his sword finding its way out of his scabbard again as Sigtrygg grit himself and stabbed deep into the corpulent belly of the beast. This time he withdrew before it could get lodged, only to continue the slashing and stabbing, rapid evisceration being the fate of whatever part of the monster Sigtrygg could reach.
Noxious scent, the coppery tang of blood on the air and tongue, and the already horribly hurt monster thrashing about and tearing up the ground around it in what seemed like blind terror to the Viking made for a grizzly scene. The bodies and weapons everywhere only made it worse. It was something out of the nightmares of any warrior, or the dreams of a madman.
The Jotunn's tail lashed and caught Sigtrygg's leg enough to send him tumbling away. Pieces of corpses, clumps of bloodsoaked dirt and grass, the bloody mess of the ground sticking to every bit of the viking as he struggled back to his feet. He only managed to get one knee up. Sigtrygg breathed heavily, giving a nod towards the Klingon and others to ensure he was mostly unhurt. Scrapes, bruises, and bones healed. Death did not. He leaned on his knee, before pushing himself up and taking up his sword again with a defiant shout, and yet another charge into the fray.
Of course, the Norseman would be quite a sight following this bloody tumble if this clotting remained following their departure from the tent. At this point, bar a return of the barbarians, their time was about up from what Sig could tell.
Feld des Todes
With the dissipation of the tent. Maghrl's efforts faltered. Once he knew no one was in immediate danger, save for those in critical condition he could do next to nothing for, the Squib started to feel the weariness setting into his bones and muscles and mind. The level of environmental control he had been setting up would exhaust even a Jedi much greater than him. His knees hit the ground, followed by the palms of his hands. The immense pain and loss was still wracking the force and him, and the squib had to shut himself off from the ones around him, at least for a bit. It was just too much.
His exhausted body shook, desperate for something to replace the fuel he had burned rushing around and focusing so wholeheartedly on the force. The Squib shut his eyes, focusing only on himself, and the fact he was still existing. The convulsions in the Force were dying down as reality set in again. Of course those who had never truly existed did not exist in the Force, but there was enough suffering and death to mask their nonexistence before this point in the Squib's mind. So much chaos in the Force made it hard to properly control and sense of one's self among it. But now, he could will himself forward without relying on his own energy and adrenaline. Slowly the shaking would stop, and the Squib pulled himself up onto his feet with an apparent second wind.
Just in time for Giovenith to order them to begin grabbing people. The squib nodded, and with deep breaths started lifting those wounded he could, one at a time, to the areas of designated for their treatments. The small alien sat himself back down while doing this slowly, eyes still shut as he brought his hands together in a meditative pose. He focused on the Force. Feeling its subsiding ebbs and flows feed through and around and those around him, using that invisible wellspring as a source of power to continue his aid of the others.
Of course, the heavy mechanical man was proving a bit more of a challenge than most. But diligently, Maghrl slowly focused on him, lifting the cyborg into the air and towards where he could get proper help. Even if he was too far gone, the medical personnel could help ease his pain. Moving him was... slow going at best though. The machinery was heavy, and Maghrl tiring rapidly. But he would do this, he could do this.
He would continue like this as long as he could. He soon lost track of time, the only thing he cared about was focusing on the Force and those who needed transportation. He knew eventually he would run dry even of this second wind of energy, of course. But now that they were safe and in Gallimaufry again, they could always recover him along with the others when he might inevitably collapse from utter exhaustion.
