The cult was well-prepared for them: too well prepared, Sol thought. The foe had both numbers and strength, and the captured Blood Seer was helpless to assist them, caged by both iron bars and magic. Sol would have been impressed, were they not providing so much frustration and distraction when their circumstances were already dire.
They fought, but the enemies were prepared for them: they dispelled Sol's magic and tried to keep her from pressing past the antimagic-secured hall of their home, to keep her from wreaking devastation upon them. Titan they kept back with deadly, barbed spears and weapons wreathed in cruel flames of necromantic magic, trying to pin him and keep him helpless. And the chargers attacked Morgan with all their strength and fury: her Paladin had already cut the battle, leaving her trying to fend off cultists, raging and empowered by dragon's blood, as the master of the cult shouted threats and recriminations at them.
The cult had been well-prepared for them, and seemed to be interested in them and them alone: even when the Paladin cut and run, he drew little attention, as the Blood Seer left hanging above the hall in his iron cage was of no interest to the cultists as anything but bait, now forgotten in the chaos of battle.
No, something, or someone, had betrayed them, knowing the rumors of a cult that worshiped the Wyrms would draw in Sol's attention. And now, this cult was throwing everything they had into savaging and destroying them, into taking their lives and bringing them low. Sol's first thought was Veliuona... but she had no time to figure out why, or how, at this juncture, with the enemy pressing ever harder on them.
Titan was cornered. Her magic was being negated. They were both wounded and there was no retreat, no exit, with the enemies so close on them, so eager for their blood. Hacking and slashing, drunk on the battle and dragon's blood, they were forcing them steadily further and further into a corner.
But as the tides began to crash down upon them, Sol saw Morgan, in desperation, attack one of the cultists, driving him down and snatching away a vial from him. She guzzled its contents, and with a roar, leapt into the fray with a rage and violence Sol had rarely seen.
Morgan tore through the cultists, fueled by the dragon's blood she had sipped: strong enough to make a normal pony into a fearless warrior, it turned Morgan into a true force of devastation. With fury and violence, she ripped and tore her way through the masses of foes, roaring and uncontrollable. In her rage, she tore through the enemy, devastating their forces with such a show of strength that it terrified those who had not also been driven berserk by the dragon's blood.
And with the cultists suddenly scattered and distracted, the berserks broken and bloodied, and Morgan wounded grievously yet unfeeling, unflinching in blood-burning rage, Titan and Sol were able to press the advantage, destroying the foes trying to hold them back, and sending the leader fleeing with his few remaining disciples.
Morgan wanted to give chase: perhaps it was better to say that she tried to pursue them like a blood-maddened huntbeast. But even her rage and fury could not overcome the wounds of her body, and it was only moments before she fell into unconsciousness.
And to Sol, this did not feel like a victory.
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