Walgrave
Walgrave watched with satisfaction as his spell again ripped into his target, proving once more that he had not yet lost his touch in battle. Now thought, it was time to step back. In his veins prana was warming his already upset body, causing ribbons of steam to escape from his mouth as he stepped back and observed the battle as a whole. The last charge of the wolves was being dealt with by his comrades, and he realized with some surprise that they seemed to have taken no casualties during the whole ordeal.
The aged magus stepped backwards, leaning against the nearby wall of the town they were protecting, and watched with sadistic curiosity as the finnal wolves aiming for the group were hit in the rear by his Rider Servant. He had entirely underestimated his own Servants capacity before, especially while mounted, and he quickly resolved to heal any and all injured the warrior might have taken from this fight.
Still though, irresistibly his eye wandered over to Siegfried, and he began to speculate how much more power might be had from gaining such a Servant. His own prana reserves were not exactly small. Could it even be possible to control both at once? A small nagging voice in the back of his head told him probably not, but a larger, much more seductive voice, the voice of the part of himself that was still flushed with victory from dispatching his wolf targets, assured him that he could manage it.
As the town guards came out to thank them Walgrave considered their injuries with a cynical eye. Moveing forward into the crowd he approached the man who seemed to be the leader and, supporting his action with a brief round of hypnotism, he placed his hands on the ears of the guardsman and muttered a few words.
A brief round of healing magecraft played over his fingers, targeting the worst of the damage inflicted by the supernatural howling of the wolves. It was a small spell, but it should help somewhat nonetheless. Hopefully these fools would hail them as miracle workers as well as saviors, cementing their influence over the town. Not that it wasn't true after a fashion.
Sinfjotli
Snarling in satisfaction Sinfjotli finished off the impaled wolf, pulling his spear from its guts and shoving the shaft through the vulnerable eye socket of the monster into its brain.
Behind him the last of the battle was winding to a close as the charge of the remaining wolves failed and they attempted to make a swift retreat.
Sinfjotli watched them go, waiting for the right moment, and then, with a move like a snake striking, he cast his spear with a powerful overhand throw at the retreating leader of the pack, hurtling insults and curses in the wolfish tongue as he did so. Then, beinding over his defeated foe, he drew his sword and began cutting off the head of the monster he had killed single handedly.
His bloodlust somewhat sated, he turned again, dragging his grisly trophy and trudging through the snow till he reached the front gate where the strang skald Servant was praising them roundly as heroes.
"I'm surprised you mystics all survived." These must all be dreadful sorceresses if they came away from the wolf pack unharmed. Carefully avoiding Seigfreid and Faust, Sinfjotli moved towards the strange Caster who called himself Shakespeare, trying to catch the attention of the beautiful spearwoman at the same time.
Making his way through the crowd, he approached Murdoch, quickly looking him over to make sure he was not injured, before he threw the wolf head down at his feet and smiled triumphantly at all around him.
"These townsfolk won't deny us their hospitality now. Come and have a drink with me all of you. You poet, can give us a song in the meantime, and tell us how you will record our victory."
@PKMNB0Y @Nanashi Ninanai @Flamelord