A dozen yards above the battlefield, seemingly precariously perched on what was naught but a meager stone ledge barely wide enough to fit a human foot on it, sat crouched an individual, and furthermore a rather unusual one compared to far most of the remainder of the defenders of the city. From his clawed birdlike feet to his rather uncanny complexion to the pair of magnificent membraned wings folded on his back, it was evident from the first halfhearted glance that this was no human, or even a person of elven, silvæan, or otherwise fabled descent.
Typically, the more human-looking folks tended to look upon him as if he was a some sort of foreign intruder amongst their numbers, with the dislike clearly evident on their faces... He was either borderline despised as if he were a vermin or otherwise a similarly undesirable element in the city-scape, or treated like some form of freak occurrence, half-beast, half-man, with people often seemingly expecting him to growl and bite like a feral creature would rather than act and - when needed - fight in a civilized manner. Some went as far as to suggest that his proper place would be amongst the werepyres rather than humans, since the formidable beasts were likewise winged and had claws. At that, he wasn't even unpleasant to look at, unlike these monstrosities - his features were most definitely unusual and perhaps even estranging for a human to look at, but in a very specific odd manner, he could probably even called handsome, as well as he looked much younger than a human of his age would have looked. It was due to the rampant ostracism that many of his winged kinsmen often opted to avoid humans entirely instead of living amongst them, but some endured humans' disdain in favor of escaping their society's own set of unique problems.
He himself had long gotten used to this kind of treatment - what else could he do, if he were to continue living amongst humans and the more, eh, human-looking humanoids? Those who merely stared at him or sent sideways glances in his direction were easy enough to tolerate; some of them were quite probably simply curious, even, not disapproving of his very existence. Those who regarded him as a cheap labor-force were fine, too . . . as long as they did not try to avoid paying the agreed price after he had done his part. The ones to yell insults at him he could usually put up with, likewise, but when it came to throwing rocks at him or poking him with real weapons... Then, then he usually had had enough and either left or retaliated in some manner. By that point, most unbiased minds would probably have said that he made a fine paragon of patience even if he finally did snap, he figured.
Granted, in case he retaliated it was usually him who got in trouble, not the initiators, but at the very least - as ironical as it might have sounded - one of the less than handful of people he would have dared call friends was a rather influential member of the force which generally attempted to keep order on the streets. That had had a tendency to keep him out of the worst of the consequences being picked fights with could lead to when your likes were not exactly in general favor.
In the end, he had not killed or cripplingly injured anyone mostly innocent, nor stolen anything or been the actual instigator, so there was no true reason to detain him.

Today, however, today it all could not matter less. Since if they lost today, there would no more be the city he had recently been living in, no more citizens to pick on him, and no more friends to help him out if the latter got out of hand. Today, the city-folk seemingly forgot that they was a largely undesirable resident, and if they even acknowledged his existence in the background, they were merely grateful that there was another gun on their side rather than felt resentful towards him.
It was all because today . . . today was devoted to battle.

By all rights, Narandail - so he had named himself for the sake of convenience - was not even certain his friend was even still alive now, let alone would still be so by the sundown. In any case, he did not manage to detect the man amongst those of the defenders who were still standing. Armored men, drenched in blood both their own and their monstrous foes', were all distressingly similar. There was no time for looking for familiar figures, for even a moment of hesitation meant that a monster had a moment longer to try and rip one of their dwindling numbers to bloody shreds. That one could, amongst other things, very easily be the very person you were attempting to spot. Furthermore, philosophical dwellings were naught but needless distractions and the death-counts could wait until the battle was over - thusly, Narandail spent no time upon either.
Having loaded his gun, the agiroan - like his species was called - lifted the firearm, its back coming to rest against his shoulder, one of his fingers finding the trigger and the muzzle of the weapon moving to at roughly the center of the back of a werepyre, a few inches beneath the point between the creature's shoulderblades.
The various shouts, cries and roars reached the winged man's ears, forming a hard-to-decipher cacophony. Someone cried out in pain, the sound coming clear enough to transcend the ambient noise; a werepyre howled in distress in another location, and another beast roared in bloodthirsty rage. One man was yelling for Auroreon, Narandail was fairly definite; only a short while later, the same man's death-cry pieced the air as he was promptly torn into two. At the very least, the man's death was not about to be left unredeemed - the beast had stopped to stand on the same spot during the action, and that was when Narandail pulled the trigger.
Sparks were released, gunpowder was ignited and the bullet flew, ending up hitting the target's shoulder rather than some point by the center of the creature's back. The fact that the shot was not entirely accurate was no surprise - the distance was such -, however to hit higher when the gravity bids the opposite? Small irregularities and the wind combined could produce rather interesting results. At the very least werepyres were large - harder to miss entirely than lesser-framed beings.
Without bothering himself with speculations, the winged man went on to reload his gun; it was a dreadfully slow activity under those dire circumstances, despite his comparatively long practice with it. The only good thing was that he had gotten skilled enough with it to do it as quickly as was possible even when he was positioned like he was and constantly scanning the vicinity.
The man was correct when he, before his death, claimed that the werepyres were about to reach the mages and gunmen - in fact, he was one of the very few in a relatively safe position. Not all had wings to reach higher places, and not all had hard talons on their feet fit for clinging onto seemingly impossible surfaces...
Granted, werepyres could fly as well as climb, but that's why he was watching his surroundings. Being shot straight into the middle of one's face with a larger bullet from barely three yards away was never particularly pretty, especially when the face under question was monstrous to begin with.

For a moment the winged man's eyes locked onto a figure appearing from what seemed to be a rift in air, the rift dark and unnatural, the figure itself undefined and blurry for a good few moments before as if solidifying and becoming more material-looking. The petite figure effortlessly flung a tendril at a nearby werepyre and dragged the beast face-first into dirt even before she began moving, emanating a sense of almost-obliviousness. 
For a moment longer the winged man watched the woman, how the battle raged on, but she did not seem to care, only once briefly turning to face a slightly misguided human holding up a sword to her - only to flee in the other direction as the fragile-looking creature put up a truly terrifying, nightmarish visage in the way of a friendly reminder that she was not to be messed with. Another werepyre learned it very soon in a far more fatal manner. Whoever the woman was - Narandail was rather certain he had seen her before, not long before the battle began -, her form could be considered pretty ... up until she displayed her powers and it turned unnerving kind of uncanny. Pretty but with a nightmarish side. And strange. Definitely strange. 
Not willing to distract himself further - it was only because he could do little else but watch what was going on while loading the gun that he had followed her for a while, Narandail turned his attention away from the woman and once more raised his gun, aimed, and fired. The effect was imminent, as the target dropped from feet with a mix of enraged roar and a pained shriek. It was not dead, it was still quite dangerous, but its spine at the waist had been hit - a truly lucky shot - and the beast rendered with a pair of useless limbs. Someone else may end its life . . . firing at it when there were still comparatively healthy werepyres roaming about would have been a waste of time and bullets, seeing how the healthy ones were a significantly larger threat.
About the time it would have taken one to count to twenty or thirty at a moderate pace passed, and the agiroanian gunman had another hulking monster on aim. This one had decided to sprint closer, probably lured in by the sound of the solitary marksman's gun firing. Again, the winged man pulled the trigger, but this time he did not score as lucky hit as he had the last time. He did not miss, that was true, but the bullet only hit the beast's upper arm and punched a marginal hole through its wing-membrane. This kind of injury did more to agitate the monster than to stop it. There was also not enough time to reload the gun before the beast would have managed to scale the vertical wall leading up to his position.

Quickly making the decision - close quarters combat with a werepyre while positioned in a not too convenient spot did not feel like a particularly inviting opportunity - the winged man threw the strap of his gun over his head and one bare shoulder, keeping the weapon in front of himself as if it were a strange kind of handbag rather than slinging it over his back (it would have gotten in the way of his wings during flight, or at the very least proved to be notably more inconvenient than in this arrangement), grabbed his spear from the leaning position it had been stored in with the other hand that was not gripping the gun's barrel, and launched himself into air, much to the frustration of the enraged werepyre clinging to the wall with its hands digging its wicked claws into the available cracks just two yards from where Narandail's feet had been gripping the ledge. Sure, werepyres could fly, too, but the agiroan was lighter and more maneuverable and thusly held the upper hand in air.
Predictably, the creature behind him wanted to give a chase, but by the time the beast had taken to air, the smaller winged being was already a few dozen yards higher up and facing the monstrosity, mighty wingbeats carrying him three feet and a half backwards and up each as the winged man waited. And then his wings snapped first half-shut, then onto his back entirely as he dived - not precisely at the werepyre, but rather aiming to pass over the creature. At the right moment, his spear drew an arc in the air, seemingly barely grazing the beast, but then he was already past the creature and his wings snapped open again as he went over into swift glide.
Despite the briefness and seeming lack of severity in the contact with the winged man's spear, the werepyre first tilted in the air, and then fell, crashing sideways into the ground. It was quite hard to fly when one of your one wing's membrane-panels was just two loose stretches of skin flapping uselessly in the wind, sliced by the spear-tip. The impact did not kill the beast, as it got to its feet a few short moments later, but now, in addition to the unremarkable hole in the creature's wing-membrane that nevertheless produced a steady stream of blood, one of its wings was now hanging limply - when the spear-tip had made it useless for flight, the fall had broken it. And it still looked entirely willing to fight on? Resilient bastard, may it slowly bleed out.

From halfway across the battlefield, an order to gather was roared out; Auroreon, Narandail presumed. With a tilt to be body and momentary slight retracting of his right wing, he made a half circle in air and headed for the voice. Having wings was a massive advantage - where others had to painstakingly crawl across the terrain, he just glided over, significantly faster than a running man, capable of keeping up with even a running horse.
It did not take long for him close in to Auroreon, sweep low and halt one's speed, dropping to ground almost next to Auroreon and immediately setting to reload his gun, wings not folded to the back, but rather threateningly held to his sides, with the wing-thumb-spikes pointing forward and the remainder of his wing-fingers pressed against his wing-arms so that the membranes' span was mostly out of the way of harm.
"Pick up your sword if you don't have some trick up in your sleeve," the winged creature's voice hissed to the mercenary. Was it his place to give orders to others? Probably not, but he felt uncomfortable enough in this particular place even without people standing about seemingly empty-handed and waiting to be attacked. "If you don't have a better plan, I'll take another position with my gun, or at the least move to the air in case those beasts would think of attacking from above; I'm more useful in either place than here on ground."
That was true. Although he could probably impale a Werepyre on one of his wing-spikes with an accurate strike, he felt rather vulnerable on the ground, furthermore so when he could suddenly find himself beneath a flying opponent. Had he not been driven away from his previous position, he probably would not have responded to the call at all.
- He was a somewhat slow runner due to his build, and relatedly not the fastest dodger, and furthermore using his wing-spikes meant putting his wing-membranes pretty much in harm's way, and that was a kind of injury he preferred not to sustain. Wing-membrane injuries, although those tended to heal very quickly, were rather unpleasant. For one, those would hinder his flight or outright anchor him to the ground, for the second those tended to be unproportionally painful and always seemed to bleed profusely, even when small.

The winged man finished loading his gun, and lifted it into firing position, widened eyes flickering from Auroreon to the surroundings, wings every now and then twitching ever so slightly when motion occurred nearby. Werepyres could fly, but yet they tried to break through the meleé-fighters rather than flying overhead and targeting the more harmful gunmen and mages - many of whom would be mostly helpless in close combat - first. Why?
"I wonder why they don't fly when it'd give them obvious edge," the agiroan noted. "It bothers me."