Oliver nodded when Sanguine pointed out that the undead didn't make the best support for skittish fighters. She was right, so he didn't push the issue. He did have a mind to march over there and explain the situation and let the zombies stand in front and soak up the initial punishment. He didn't go through with it, though, as that would mean first arguing with the Guild Master. As much as he liked a good argument, pissing off the vampire right before a battle probably wasn't the best idea. 

The Paladin said nothing as Sanguine did a remarkable job managing the situation to her favour. It was almost like she did this for a living. That was quickly forgotten, however, when another cry went up. This one bore word of the enemy arriving. Numbers were vague, but the warrior caught the words "three score" and wished they had cavalry. A single banner would do much to shatter the resolve of foot-borne soldiers. Bartholmew looked like he was having similar thoughts as he rushed off to lead his own troop. This inspired sudden defiance in the Cleric, and couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "There are only a dozen men there, Sanguine. They've got six times that number against them. They need my help." he growled. He'd wasted too much time already. Oliver didn't even want to wait for his boss' reply, but he did, out of grudging respect for her mastery of the situation so far. "Raise the dead, and I can lead them on a flanking manoeuvre. We'll destroy them completely." his back-up plan was to simply sprint to the aid of the few men determined to actually fight, and start tossing fireballs like they were going out of style. He wasn't going to let a potential ally fall into ruin because of some incomprehensible scheme...