Tara is the martial tank hero in my fantasy stories, like a fighter, paladin, or barbarian.
Len is the arcane magic hero in my fantasy stories, like a wizard, sorceress, or bard.
The room had a domed ceiling of twelve arches. The thick transparent glass floor was the face of a giant six-handed clock, ticking ever so quietly. In the center of the magically lit chamber was a being of metal and feminine shape. It rose from a cross-legged sitting position, and drew sword and shield.
Lucius is the divine magic hero in my fantasy stories, like a cleric, oracle, or druid.
As Tara’s hammer came down on the last demon’s skull, she collapsed down too. The head-cracking strike splattered her with its foul tar-like blood, further drenching her as the hell-smoke rose from it and the other smote fiends. As she sat there panting, breathing in the fumes and covered in grime, Lucius ran up to her from across the volcanic field.
It turned its head towards them, and they met a gaze like the colorless face of a barn owl, sharp beak and terrible eyes black as night staring back at them.
Another branch crashes loudly through the canopy to the earth, a wake of birds already fleeing startled. The runner makes no pretense of stealth, which Asoka has given up on as well. The half-elf, running at top speed, fires another arrow up into the trees, and again misses his quarry. That damn protection from arrows spell! He curses in his head, not wasting the breath as he maintains pursuit. The other half-elf, running, jumps from branch to branch, satchel swinging from his body as he darts overhead.