The chimera threw Lady Margaret with the casual, contemptuous force of something disposing of an object that had served its purpose, hurling her across the space between them like a stone thrown at nothing in particular.
She crossed the distance without control or awareness, her broken form offering no resistance to the arc.
Elder Darrien moved.
The veil of blood rose around him in the same instant. It softened the impact, absorbing the force of her arrival, and his arms found her as the momentum bled away, catching her unconscious body.
He stood there, holding her, and looked at the chimera.
"Fiend of Gore." Beelzebub's voice carried the particular satisfaction of something that had won, knew it, and was taking its time with the knowing.
One clawed finger traced the line of his own neck, coming away slick with blood from a wound that had stopped mattering to him some time ago.
