"Just... gotta... nnhg!" she arched her back against the wall and struggled to pull the sword out of her. It should not have hurt - armor lacks nerves, but his hand was undoing her deathblow - it felt like her world had been invaded by nasty little purple lights that made the whole world spin, and blazes did that light hurt! She cried out when it came loose - a wail of release and anguish that lasted all of a moment, before she turned her attention to the matter at hand!
Her falling savior would be hurt when he hit the ground, and she'd given her word that she would not let him, so after a moment's hesitation in which she planted her feet on the ground, she released the hold she had on the door, and cradled her savior in telekinetic force, just before he hit, and pulled him away from the onrushing wraiths, taking her greatblade from his hands as he passed.
The blade was not magical. It was not made of an exotic material. It didn't glow an eldritch glow. It wasn't even shiny or ornate. What it was was a six foot long, hundred-pound metal stick that, the armor ghost was proud to see, hadn't even lost its edge dealing her her death blow. And that in itself was remarkable - it had actually cleaved through stone. As she wound up to hit the first hideous son of a bitch spirit, she made a mental note to kill another demon for the Pyromancers - son of a bitch she loved this weapon.
An iron sword should not have been able to decimate a spirit. In fact, she recalled now with her sword again in her hands, that had rather been the problem. The wraiths had weakened her because she COULDN'T hit them, the Bhuts had stolen her breath, and the demon only had to stick her up like a bug - she couldn't fight back. But this iron sword did. This blade... struck the surprised spirit full-on in the face, and four more like it in the blade's inevitable path, cleaving them in two and kicking up dust beneath them as it hurled them full-on into the far wall where they splattered violently into ectoplasm.
The old battle came back to her. The armor didn't feel heavy anymore... her body felt light as a feather, so she let the momentum carry her from the sword's swing, shifting her footing to let the blade continue spinning as one hand left it, her grip shifting closer to the pommel with the remaining. The knight reached for her belt... and was pleased to see that Brand had stayed at her hip. With her now free hand, she drew it, and the gloom of the room they were in fled. Revealed within, as she swung it trailing the arc of her greatsword Clout's swing, was a blade of glowing, red-hot steel that hissed and spat as it sang through the air, leaving a livid red line in several surprised spirits, their pieces bursting into flame as they flew apart, their corporeal manifestations disseminated. It wasn't a permanent solution, she knew... the priest she'd brought with her had told her that.
She would be interested to see if that mad had survived. Later, she promised herself, she would find out. But, there were no immediate ghosts now. Something of the way their comrades had died got through to them appearantly, and they merely began to cluster on the outer edge of the room... until numbers outweighed cowardice. Lady Muriel turned her head to her savior, the glow of her visor alighting on him, and she brought Clout to the ground, the blade biting into stone easily as she stood straight.
"My name is Lady Muriel of Adela." she said, her voice alto and warm despite its spectral tinge. "Thank you for releasing me... But they will be surging into the room in a moment or two, you can bet on that." She stared at the door again. "May I have the privilege of knowing my savior's name?"
