[color=00aeef][h3]Voss[/h3][/color]
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[color=00aeef]"I'd much rather you quietly surrender and stop making a needless amount of noise, but you seem hell bent on suicide by combat..."[/color] The Shaman was muttering under his breath now as the man, instead of charging him like any decent man might, instead grabbed the thief and carried him along like a living missile. Add in the fact the man had decided to lob a disabled man at him to try and force an edge in the fight, and Voss had to conclude that the man's intelligence was [i]certainly[/i] not among his strong suits. Though he was alarmingly accurate, Voss had few options in regards to direction. Backwards, which wouldn't actually get him out of the way, either side would invite a gold toss as to whether or he guessed the man's dominant sword hand right. That left a rather obvious choice, albeit one that would likely hurt. Running forward, he quickly swapped to his Nosferatu tome in anticipation for injuries, throwing himself forward to avoid the thief and aimed to tumble past the sword arm side of Morag, hoping to get past him with minimal injury by robbing him of that diagonal stroke's intended location.

Voss knew full well he had likely been clipped by the blade, which would have damaged his robes as well as himself, he narrowed his eyes briefly as he raised his palm towards Morag. Unlike the Flux he had entered the room with, he still clung onto his Nosferatu tome, channeling a singular strike with the spell. He always prided himself on landing his hits, even if he couldn't overwhelm his foes in a barrage of attacks, and it would hopefully give him an edge in keeping himself alive longer.