The battle had raged on for the better half of a full week. Turpis' attire had been sullied since day two of the conflict. The aggressor's, on the other hand, had been stripped of their armor. The fight had taken place on a grassy knoll, though by now it had become barren as a desert. The land had been stripped bare, and the effects of their combat could be seen, etched as it was into the very earth.
Turpis stood between the seven. His form was defiant and still resonated with a power that was on a scope that surpassed most of his own species. So too, however, did the seven possess a comparable level of power. The seven vanished simultaneously. Turpis' caught two kicks in his palms, deflected the sword of one aggressor into the leg of another with a rising kick, and kocked an axe into their other comrade with his elbow.
The seventh, however, managed to impale the Djinn with the end of his lance. Turpis coughed out in a spatter of blood;the likes of which fell to stain his bare chest. He extended his arms and threw those that had attempted to kick him, then brought his arms in to grasp the tip of the spear. He proceeded to pull it through, along with the one that wielded it. He yanked the knight violently into his own form, sending the male careening back whilst rearming the Djinn with a weapon.
One by one the knights recovered and resumed their attack. One by one they were held at bay by Turpis' spear. This lasted for hours, though his wound had taken its toll. Where his movements had once been tactful and precise, his margin for error had grown. His stance was growing sloppy, and more of the kngihts' strikes were beginning to land.