If the dremora is to die in this madness at the hands of some mortals then at least bringing one of them with it into the gates of Oblivion will be one last conquest. And this one reeks of weakness. Fear. The dremora falls without ever knowing the fate of its prey. It's corrupting magics leaving singed patches in the grass that smolder with a sickly smoke.

"Here, I'm...I'm here!" Jim calls out from where he's hurrying down the rocks to try and catch back up with the brothers. Slower than he'd otherwise be, but in tact. His arm burns, but it's his off-hand. He can still fight like this. Probably. It's magic, so no telling if it's going to spread or get worse. But better him than Felix or Stratos. Even if this Hurts, he can still stand. Still move. Still continue. He won't hold them back.

"Are you both okay?"