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[@Lyla][@Sync][@Arthanus]

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As the group sunk deeper into the crypt, Pox felt himself gulp several times, his nerves tense with anticipation at what was bound to be an attack at some point.  He kept his head on a swivel, but he couldn't see much, seeing as many of his companions were bigger and bulkier than he was.  He did away with his crossbow in exchange for his hands to be filled with a handful of darts and a vial of blue liquid, something he intended for his closest companions as hostilities started.

Inevitably they did...

The door slammed and immediately with a yelp Pox broke the vial, some of the distilled spirit stone breaking with a splash over Hafrbjǫrn, Lyra, Alm, Garrett, and Sybille.  The liquid would shine for a moment before evaporating into motes of light.  The enchantment of Iron Transmutation would infuse clothes and flesh, making the surfaces upon them more durable, even though nothing would seem to change at a glance,  but closes inspection, cotton of clothes would resist being separated as if the fibers were coiled wire, the elastin of skin would do the same, the skin resisting the natural give.  Pox hoped it would be enough to stay a mortal blow from harming his companions, it was all he had time to do.  [color=green]"Father, keep us far from harm."[/color]  He prayed.

The giant of a man got his attention as he looked up at him, more than a foot higher, pulling him closer, though Pox had no such say in the matter.  The beak swung to look at him, though it appeared that only a ghost may possess the space behind the green lenses of his mask, though movements and tone would suggest quite differently.  He handed Pox a pouch which Pox was quick to inspect.  [color=green]"Oh.   I certainly will."[/color]  His mood seemed quite elevated, hoping by his tone he could be given an offer of thanks.  These bombs were powder charges in woven sacks with bits of iron scrap within.  Cheap, efficient while the blast itself was pretty small, chunks of metal flying can cause quite a bit of damage, and thats what Pox intended.

With Hafrbjǫrn covering their flank with might, Pox focused on the battlefield, the far end, namely the archers already under fire.  Pox meant to add to the pressure, as before making it unwise to aim properly.  [color=green]"I'm gonna need you to stop shooting please!"[/color]  A spark of knife to flint lit the wicks and Pox began to throw them.  It was something he seemed quite adept at.  While they may be off by a number of feet, he didn't really need to aim.  A lob across the room, out of range of his allies and in the vicinity of the archers was what he needed.  Anything to keep them from firing properly.  

He stepped up to move to Bjorn's flank, moving between him and Nanami.  He wanted to be shot or struck before his giant comrade could be hit, and more importantly, be a more enticing target than Nanami and keep some of the heat off of her if it came to their corner of the battlefield.  Pox felt he could probably take a hit, out healing anything these monsters could dish out, so long as it wasn't more than one at a time.