Alfie staggered backwards, his glaive clattering to the ground as the arm carrying it felt limp by his side. Blood trickled down the grooves of his iron-wood armour and dripped from the tips of his finger.
His eyes darted around, watching the gas around him shifting as an invisible force tore through it. But it was useless to try and use it to know where his opponent was. By the time the gas had shifted, the Were-Tiger could have already crossed the room twice over, and a dozen new slashes appeared on his armour.
The only consolation was that it seemed to be playing with him. Enjoying torturing its food before it finally went in for the kill, and that was playing right into his hand. Although the flowers on his back had been destroyed, gas still poured from the area they had carved from, just not nearly at the same rate.
