The internal monologue of one Martel of Damerel is presently not anything he'd repeat in mixed company, a litany of curses intermingled with the inevitable satisfaction of his own brilliance (...look). Mixing with the sand is the debris of the structure that was above, and it's that that strikes him in the back, driving him down to his knees as he drags himself through the sand on the ground. His hands scrape against the sand and the stone beneath, his shirt is torn and bloody at the back, and he's familiar enough with broken ribs to know he's going to be feeling today for a long while.

Down the street, Kalten's muscles bunch as he clears a second blockade to charge back towards his master and his master's new friend, through the hive's guardians.