<div class="floatright">(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/8a/68/89/8a68895414d7a5d011c3583260321693.jpg)</div>The sudden retreat of the merrow from this clear threat is done with glares and croaks of frustration, anger and impotent rage clear on their slick faces.  Backing off slowly, the two tense as Gwyndolin comes closer, getting closer to them.  The leader's lips (or as near as they can be called) pull back into a snarl and he gasps out to his sister, "Run.  Rally-"  He lets out a gasp of pain and frustration as her dagger sinks into his shoulder, his arms moving to try to push Gwyndolin off.  "Rally our people!  They will not pass this way again."<br/><br/>His webbed fingers clamp onto her hand, trying to push the dagger away, to overpower her.  One of his feet moves forward to hook her ankle, bringing the two of them down onto the ground, the stab-wound not enough to stop him, though the trident has been abandoned.  Gwyndolin and the merrow fall into mud, the merrow on top as he barely holds back her hand with the shadow-blade, his other hand scrambling and pushing at her, trying to get a hold around her throat.  Wet, cool fingers rub over her skin, catching for a moment on the slips of material that cover her breast before pushing up towards her throat.