The creature isn't dead, perhaps not even dying, in spite of the grevious wounds it bears -- Amara knows that much, even as it turns, even as Marius is suddenly next to her, then half on top of her as they land and sink into the muck.  Before she can react to that, she's out of the water again, Marius hauling her back to her feet.  The rapier is still, almost miraculously, in her hand, and for an instant, she thinks she won't need it anymore.  Then she sees the bandits, and realizes that he's pushing her behind him, protecting her as always.  That realization catches her somewhere between gratitude and annoyance.<br/><br/>But she can't deny that Marius is far more effective at stopping the raiders, especially since she's without her bow.  His sword flies through them all, hardly slowing as the blade meets flesh, then bone.  They die gruesome deaths, worse than she's ever seen so close.  But they are not men, not any longer.  Some instinct tells her this, with absolute certainty, and their eyes seem to bear this out -- without exception, they are all flat and cold, more like the eyes of reptiles than men, and she shivers to see them.<br/><br/>They do not quite die like men, either.  Once, then twice, one of them, bearing a wound from that mighty sword that would have felled any normal human instantly, continues on with grim determination for several steps, off-balance but continuing to attack.  One falls to Thorius's blade, the other to Amara's, as they stumble past Marius.  Then they, too, add to the taint that surrounds the fighters, further polluting the already foul waters.<br/><br/>That calm from earlier fails her now; she fights well enough, and steadily, but she is not quite the efficient, calculating being she was then.  There are still several left, too many to relax.  Something is trying to wear them down, she thinks, sending wave after wave to attack them, leaving them reeling.  But their blades still swing true, and she thinks that simple determination will carry them all far enough this day.  Their opponents fight relentlessly, even fanatically, but without the edge, the creativity of sorts that makes a true swordsman so frightening.<br/><br/>They will win this battle, she knows that much.  But she still feels that tug from the city, the ruins that somehow feel whole in her mind, and fears the battles to come.  Marius will shield her as long as he still has breath -- she knows this, cradles that knowledge against her, feeling its warmth -- but his death would be hers as well, in every way that matters.  She fears those ruins now, in so many ways... She looks at Thorius, envies her for a moment, wishing for the confidence that she seems to have, a fiery determination to go with the flame of her hair.  Thorius always seems to look to the future, seeing it as clearly as the present, and yet rushes forward to meet it, boldly.  Amara can only dread it, even as the tide of this battle well and truly turns, and the advantage once again slowly becomes theirs.