Gunter was streaked with dust from the plain, cinnabar smudges across his billowing white uniform, swirling lilac hair, the pale bridge of his nose. He swayed, the force of his own magic buoying him two feet above the earth Gwendal had churned and broken.
"Ah, Gwendal, do you think that--"
"I yield." Gwendal grunted, demanded his knees unlock. They folded, and he fell, clutching his right arm.
Gunter's boots touched earth, raced towards him; the echo of his footfalls made Gwendal's head throb.
Gunter was calling for a healer, muttering about what Gisela would do, his touch sure as he hefted Gwendal onto his side, arranging his limbs into a surprisingly comfortable position. Gunter's fingers were cool against Gwendal's forehead.
Gwendal kept his eyes closed to preserve his expression. Obscuring one's strategy was important to safeguard future victories.