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[color=silver]The living corpse among them — or one of the two, anyhow, there [i]was [/i]also a man with half a face missing — didn't seem to take kindly to Wraith's words. The halfling watched, amused, as the woman fixed him with a glare and a gesture often used to belittle his kind. With a small smile, Wraith formed a heart with his own hands in turn; a gesture he was [i]sure [/i]no one had given [i]her [/i]before.

Somewhere far away, he could make out the stampede of dozens of feet and hooves, nearing. Wraith was just about to turn his gaze away from the ghastly woman, when she stole back his attention — by [i]screaming[/i]. It was an unholy, blood curdling, bone shattering [i]wail[/i]. Wraith hunched, holding his ears. By all the gods holy and not, if he'd known she'd react like [i]this[/i], he would've held back on the gesturing!

[i]... Kidding. [/i]He knew what her goal was, and knew she'd succeeded even without looking up to see what'd come of the incoming barbarians. Even one of their [i]own [/i]fainted, and Wraith contemplated, for a stray moment, picking his pockets clean for it. It would've been an opportune time, and he doubted he would've been caught besides; after all, half their group was quickly turning out to be just as barbaric as the horde charging them. 

Not all of them, though. The giant, of all people, attempted to hold the others back for what Wraith assumed was a negotiation, and then there was—

Wraith's eyes narrowed as he trailed an elf with strikingly blue eyes. She kept her distance and, with a little magic, alerted them of a party of Sulfreyan riders. Something about her, about the grimoire she held so close, reminded Wraith of the wizards of his past. He felt an urge, sudden and [i]burning[/i], to put a dagger through that tome.

... But for now, the tome called forth lightning, and the lightning burned to crisp their enemies, so he stayed his hand. He had to admit, much to his chagrin, that in a situation that called for mass destruction, magic [i]was [/i]quite useful after all. Wraith himself was never a tool to be used on the masses; he couldn't stop a raging horde with a scream, or a chain of magical words. What he excelled at was the complete opposite of the situation they found themselves in now; picking a target, [i]one [/i]target, and striking once.

He looked back to the skies.

Sulfreyans weren't fueled by bloodlust and hunger like barbarians. They were an organized lot, with a leader to command them. Underneath his cloak, Wraith gripped his dagger, searching for a leader somewhere in the sky, past the wall of fire and among the storm. If he were to spot someone fitting that description, he'd let loose his dagger — and it [i]would [/i]find its target, he knew, before returning to him.

[i]Or[/i], if his trigger-happy companions killed everyone before he could, well, he supposed that'd work, too. 

Either way, he took a few steps away from the group and disappeared from sight, lest someone on the opposing side get the bright idea to drop magic on their tightly grouped lot. [/color]