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“I would not call leaping straight into the path of gunfire a plan by any means,” Moro’a argues, keeping his voice down lest the rogue goblins hear them.
“Sure it is,” Leofard cajoles, flashing one of his cheeky grins. The move only serves to exasperate Moro’a further, and he narrows his eyes. Leofard shrugs. “If it ain’t, well…cover for me, will you?”
“Oi!” But he’s already leapt out into the open, and Moro’a groans as the man instantly regains the attention of the Illuminati. A handful of goblins wouldn’t have posed much of a problem for the two of them, but the stragglers had called for backup in between spotting and chasing them through the Arkhitekton, and their numbers had since almost doubled.
For what it’s worth, the sky pirate is giving their enemies a run for their gil, dodging bullets and bombs alike with the speed and agility of a langur. Most of them, at least – Moro’a winces as a bullet grazes past Leofard’s shoulder, and then again as shrapnel from a blast catches him in the hip. Moro’a follows after Leofard, knocking out a pair of nearby goblins with a sonic blast from his staff along the way.
Having fought alongside the Scions for so long, most of them learned masters of their respective crafts, the hyur’s fighting style is a reckless oddity, his movements unpredictable and hard to follow as Moro’a tries to cover his blindspots. Rough around the edges, and more instinct than thought; a particular sort of wild energy that Moro’a’s admittedly finding hard to look away from.
Several well-aimed shots and spells later, they’ve managed to thin out most of the crowd, now standing back to back in the centre of the room. Leofard trains his rifle on one of the remaining goblins. “Thought ye had the high ground!” he taunts.
The goblin hisses through their mask. “Gobbie has bombspear! Uplanders die!” they screech, hoisting up a long metal tube with a projectile attached to its end.
Before Moro’a can recognise the weapon, the projectile is propelling towards them. “Look out!” he yells, throwing himself to the side as the missile shoots past. An explosive blast ruptures through the air, and Moro’a reflexively covers his head as shockwaves run through the room.
He looks up when the shocks subside, first with caution, then alarm as he notices the goblin loading another missile. Leofard runs towards him from the other side of the room, clutching at his side. “Time to go!” he shouts. The goblins are still disoriented from the blast, but Moro’a refuses to take any chances; pulling out his staff, he casts a ring of chimerical lightning around them, further immobilising the goblins.
Leofard lets Moro’a drag him out of the building by the arm, and even all the way to the next one before insisting he can walk on his own. A smaller building, likely a former household – there’s a small crevice between the old Sharlayan brickwork and the partially collapsed roof that they can wedge themselves into, and Leofard’s about to squeeze in when Moro’a holds out his hand. “Wait. I need to make sure the roof won’t cave in,” he explains.
“Always so cautious, eh?” It’s more amusing than bothersome, but Leofard can’t help but dig into the fact a little. “I thought avoiding those masked buggers was the top priority here.” As if to prove his point, a series of mechanical whirs and clicks punctuate his sentence, too close by for comfort.
“A shelter’s no good if it cannot keep you safe,” Moro’a retorts. He’s serious enough that the sky pirate leaves the matter there, waiting in slightly awkward silence until the Keeper’s done with his inspection. “Alright, it should hold.”
The gap proves even smaller than it looked from the outside, and the two men are wedged close as they shuffle about the space, each trying to fit around the other. Leofard has successfully avoided thinking about his injuries up till now, but as he shifts into the corner of a windowsill, his wounded ribs protest enough for him to gasp.
Moro’a’s alert in an instant. “You’re hurt,” he says, stating the obvious.
“I’ll be fine.” Leofard turns his attention towards the wall, straining his neck as he tries to look through the window’s cracked remains.
“Leofard. Stop squirming and let me take a look,” Moro’a hisses through his teeth behind him. Something about the Miqo’te’s tone grates, and Leofard turns to fix him a look. “Appreciate yer concern ‘n all, Moro’a, but I can more than look after m’self. Always have,” he hisses back. Sure he can tell his side’s bleeding and there’s something small stuck in his right hip, he’s not daft, but Moro’a has to know he’s weathered far worse than this.
“You can fix me up to yer heart’s content when we’re out of this ghost town.” With some difficulty Leofard lifts himself up higher for a better view, and from this position he can’t avoid leaning into Moro’a, his uninjured hip pressing into what feels like the other man’s shoulder. Moro’a stiffens a little, and Leofard smiles to himself smugly. The game is still on, after all.
“If we have to make a run for it again, this will only slow you down. I'll have it healed in seconds.” Sighing, Leofard turns to Moro’a once more to squint at him. "Stubborn arse," he grouses. He thinks over it for a moment – Moro’a’s an accomplished healer, probably the best of them out there. If nothing else, he’ll make good on his word. The thought of Moro’a’s hands over him does sweeten the deal, along with an opportunity to rile the man up further…he settles down, lifting his arm out of the way of his side. “Make it quick then,” he answers, feigning reluctance.
Moro’a’s hand hovers over the wound in his side, and as he mutters his spell the buzzing aether washes over Leofard, accompanied by a strange cooling sensation. Leofard can’t help but draw a breath as featherlight fingers brush against the exposed skin, before pulling away all too quickly.
The wound is gone and the flesh good as new, all in a matter of seconds. "Huh. Well well, would you look at that…certainly beats patchin’ it up with water and rags,” Leofard remarks, genuinely impressed. Refusing to concede victory, he adds, “I’ll admit it, I made a mistake underestimating those hands.”
Any lingering annoyance is swept away by the satisfaction of seeing Moro’a avoid his gaze, though the goggles keep him from seeing if he’s blushing. “No offence taken,” the Miqo’te mumbles, moving on to heal the remaining injuries. And maybe it’s seeing him hold fast his composure through the fluster, or the way he applies the same amount of care healing a simple cut as he would a worse injury…damn it all but Leofard thinks it’s cute as all hells.
Moro’a’s peering outward, still refusing to look at him. All is quiet in the Hinterlands now, save for the breeze, and it spurs Leofard on to pull his last card. “You missed a spot though, mate,” he says to Moro’a, grinning and tapping at the cut on his cheek for him to see.
There’s fun to be found in both subtlety and forwardness; Leofard just happens to enjoy treading the line between.
Moro’a hesitates. “You don’t need me for that.”
“Nay…but t’wouldn’t hurt me, either.” He’s dropped his voice to a purr, and he’s not letting Moro’a go now that they’ve wedged themselves into this corner. He holds the Keeper’s gaze, waiting to see what he’ll do.
Moro’a leans in so quickly that there’s no time to respond, and the kiss is over before it’s started, a faint sting on his cheek the only evidence. “There. Better now, aye?” he murmurs, and Leofard blinks, surprise rapidly becoming delight as he registers what’s happened. Moro’a’s already halfway out of the crevice, and Leofard’s grinning from ear to ear as he follows after him, plotting to finish what Moro’a’s started at the first opportunity.