[center][h3][color=993333]István Shilage[/color][/h3][/center]

[@The Otter]

[color=993333]"The thought occurred to me, once or twice,"[/color] came the mirthful yet muffled grindstone timbre, as the hulk's advance paused to see his neck crane beneath the greathelm, tilting ears high, eyes high. Beneath the clamor of both forces' cries of war, the symphony of steel and flame, there was... thrumming. Twanging. This skirmish was an orchestra of percussion, voice, and brass— not haggard strings. Irian's bow sang a deeper chord, one melding with the dull roar. These were stark, acrid, and rushed. Assembling to a time, not yet to a tune.

[color=993333]"But to stop a heart without making good on the fear struck as... [i]merciful[/i]."[/color]

He spat the word, as the dull earthen disks within the shadowed visor honed in on a fallen array of stars, points of caught firelight in the smoke. He raised the castle gate on his left arm as he stepped forth, two, three, and four impacts biting into the metal and wood. Not preternaturally accurate in their haste to mount a proper check to the sudden offensive, not mobile enough to vanish like ghosts in the wake of their scattered steeds...

[color=993333]"Swiftly now. They rally."[/color] he grunted, affirmed by the little Princess's sharp calls from the direction of the scattershot arrows.

The boy was schooled as well as he— hell, even the merchant likely knew well enough not to leave coordinated archers to their devices.

He pushed forth beneath the barrier of his shield, ears, and eyes, obscuring as much movement between the encampment's tents as a big man was ever able. Morahti were little more than amoral raiding folk on their best day, but their mettle would surely exceed those of lowly thugs. They would assemble what structure they could from within the chaos— but the raid wouldn't leave them much room to breathe and adapt beyond basic formations, their skirmishers tying up the front while the better archers among them either softened things or picked off strays from the rear.

Swinging around and pressing them from the other side was a natural progression of things— a moment to seize with the tempo, before their enemies could find their feet underneath it. Splitting their attention would halve their potency, leaving either edge of the Lions free to mop up.