A brawl? It wasn't particularly his best overall mode of action, though he'd seen his share of violence in a mean street situation. But he didn't see any good way to win a fistfight against a man with armor on. So much for no weapons, as those gauntlets might as well be maces. "Fucking cheating filth," he grunted. With that in mind, Tal didn't drop any weapons -- he had a poniard concealed on his person and if it came down to defending himself from a man swinging a metal-clad fist at his face, he'd happily maim the bastard, orders or no. But he didn't say that to the Sergeant or anyone else. 

Luckily, it didn't come down to that -- the Sergeant said "warrens" even as he was thinking about how to go about disrupting the enemy, how to make them break their momentum and their formation. As he readied himself and started to draw in the power from the shadow, he tried to keep his voice heard but not overheard as he told his comrades, "I'm about to distract them. Use it." 

He didn't explain himself fully, even as he waved his right hand in front of his face and along a half circle that dipped down toward his hip and came up with a sharper, which he hurled into the ranks of the charging enemy with an evil smile. A moment later, he even managed the triggering movement of two fingers snapped forward from his wrist, parallel to his temple, for a second illusion: the sound of the sharper bouncing off a breastplate. The whole idea was to be seen with that smirk and the hurled object. The enemy didn't know who the sappers were and who the mages were, and it was gratifying for one of the enemy heavies to yell, "SHARPER!" with the panicked undertone of a scream to his shout; maybe the big son of a bitch didn't like cheating so much when it didn't benefit him. At least one believed it and called out -- and perhaps the rest of the squad would react instinctively, as veterans might. So much the better if they did.