Ark slowly worked his way along the vine towards the nearby cliff wall, the whole thing swaying dangerously with every movement. The wall was steep but weathered enough for his claws to find some purchase.
A crack of thunder echoed through the chasm from above, and Ark knew immediately what that meant: “Storm!”, he shouted. He was answered by a roar, too feral to come from a charr, followed by more thunder, and suddenly a roar of pain. Storm’s voice.
Ark closed his eyes and focused, drawing strength from the Mists. A surge of power rushed through him—more intense than he had ever felt. Unusual, but he had no time to consider it. Slamming his claws into the rock wall as if they could pierce it, he began climbing up. He was vaguely aware of the sounds of battle above him, and the closer he came to the edge of the chasm, the stronger he felt. And angrier. They would die for attacking his friend. He would murder that charr—
He almost lost his grip from the shock. What had he just thought? The power running through him now felt strange, hostile, and he instinctively shut it out. He listened, but could no longer hear sounds of battle from above. “Storm!” he called again, and tried to climb further, but nearly slipped. Without that power, his strength was failing.
“Ark?!”, a familiar voice called, and Storm’s face appeared near the edge. “What in blazes are you doing down there?” Ark felt too weak to even answer, he could barely hold on now. Storm must have seen it and reached down towards him. “Come on, just a bit further!”
He was so close, he could almost reach for Storm’s hand—and then he saw it again. A dark shape, lurking behind his friend, two glowing eyes fixed on him. There was no more time. With his last strength, Ark lunged upwards, grabbed Storm’s hand—and yanked. With a yelp of surprise, Storm lost his balance, and they fell.