Will jerks his left arm up -- it feels as if he's moving through thick syrup, as if the world is stuttering under strobe lights -- and crooks it over his head, baring the quartered circle branded into his wrist years ago. He leans into the wind, straining against it, eyes narrowed to slits.
(by Pendragon's sword
The Dark's power is that of one Lord only, and less than it was on a Midsummer Day five years ago, but the Light's protections here are also less. The world is a storm of madness around them: a dull sick soundless shaking in the air, black clouds and white-scorched lightning. Enough to drive a mortal man mad -- except that they are protected, just enough, for now. By the moment's pause Bran's strike has bought them, and by the powers of others around them from worlds beyond, and by the shields Will has just thrown around everyone he can.
the Dark shall fall
He leans into the howling gale, teeth gritted, and bends all his mind and will and power into keeping it that way.