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[b][u]Cuttersbury: Trail towards Drych Lake[/u][/b]

Quentin hurried back to the fracas, which was growing more chaotic by the second. Trixie cantered past the mage, riding a Varren like a bucking bronco, and Quentin would surely have laughed if the situation were not so grim. As it was, the Pride looked like it was getting pushed around by these bad-ass bulldozer things. The one red head and the other dude were already grounded.

Man, grounded. Quentin made a note to tell that joke later when this was over. If it was ever over. Although Moira knocked one out of the park with such perfection, that still was like grains of sand from the shore. Wherever one looked, there was always more. Wherever the eye went, another Varren was popping up or popping in, to the frustration of nearly everyone. Quentin was about to join in again when a rock hit him in the back of the shoulder. He spun around; the Varren he had disoriented with a bubble blast to the eyes was now indiscriminately pitching rocks in all directions. The water mage backed away in a hurry, almost twisting his ankle in a hole. He did not stop moving until he nearly collided with Marcus.

Right, Marcus. The dude was a wind mage, so probably he couldn't be of a whole lotta use in pitched combat like this. Well, he seemed to be chanting something, so he was doing what he could. And that was the way of it, wasn't it? Even without water, Quentin had to be doing what he could, too. He snapped his fingers and then reached for the leaves of a low-hanging tree branch. Another rock whizzed by and hit him in the side. He winced and grunted, "Marky, I don't have enough water to make this hurt, so I need a little air on this one. You feelin' me?"

The leaves of the tree shrank from a full, vital verdant to a lovely crimson to a paling gold and finally to a withered, dead brown. Quentin released the branch. Between his hands was a floating pool of water, maybe enough to fill a small bucket. The mage hunkered down in a pose, poised to strike.