"What's the matter, witch?" the hunter spits, circling the witch's soulless puppet minion with her trusty blessed blade drawn. "Afraid to fight me yourself?"
"Yes," the witch replies, the floorboards vibrating with the force of her voice and her magic. "Exactly."
"I would be too," the doll adds, her feet dangling as the swell of unholy power lifts her up. Funny. She doesn't sound like the witch. Her voice is low, measured, almost pleasant. "But I'm never by myself."
She holds her hands up. The witch's magic churns out of the earth and condenses in her hands, into the threatening shape of a huge warhammer.
"She is a conduit for her—"
"I am a conduit for my—"
"—Lady's will!" they finish together, and the hunter gets her blade up just in time to lessen the force of the strike. Its runes flare with the light of all her convictions.
There is a sort of explosion.