The tingle of magic in use swept over Darian in waves, with the sharp report of heavy discharge rattling his brain into his skull and battering his body. Oaths hot on his lips, the wraith, wrought in wool of dull and plain colors: browns, grays and blacks sawed back on his reins in time to avoid getting wretched into pieces by one of the explosions. Instead it slashed into the dark soil of the Wildlands, kicking up a gout of dirt and uprooted grass mere hand spans from where his horse jerked to a stop in a spray of sod fragments.

As the dirt and dust washed over him, he twisted in the saddle to stare back along the path they had come, his face tight with fatigue under his steel helm, as his company raced forward like Drakes after prey. Yet the man’s eyes burned with intent purpose, firebrands in the midst of the sun-darkened and weathered features. 

With a grace that seemed as instinctual as it was smooth and economical, Darian pulled a soliferrum from his saddle. As if by silent command the assassin's charcoal steed spurned into action, burning the last of it's energy reserves to reach top speed. It's muscles rippled from under it's freshly groomed pelt and his powerful legs with every domineering stride. 

Into the fray Darian returned, bent low on his horse's back in order to avoid drag and increase speed; a lesson of old now practically applied. Beneath his calf he could feel his steeds rib cage now heaving in silent protest as he maneuvered to and fro in order better throw off the aim of the magicians. Explosion after explosion deafened and nearly blinded the man, but keen eyes still caught the shifting shapes of his compatriots, two of which who succeeded in boarding the vessels. 

They lacked numbers and firepower, turning what was supposed to be an easy settlement of coin into a deadly gambit, but who was Darian to ignore the chance at adding a few heads to his kill count. Ripping his boots out of there stirrups and quickly shifting his weight upwards to leap and squat on his saddle, Darian prepared a maneuver similar to which Covell preformed only moments ago. 

Reins in one hand and soliferrum in the other, he stared down his target, a rather youthful look magician fumbling for ammunition in his pouch, while his allies seemed rather distracted by the highwayman at there backs. Darian hefted his soliferrum and took aim and whipped the reins to force his steed forward quicker. With one last cough the steed road harder, closing the gap between him and the cart. 

The magician only had time to catch the glint of silver before a soliferrum entered his chest and drove him into his mate, knocking them off balance and causing them to sprawl. Darian was close behind, leaping off his stead who quickly collapsed in agony, and landing heavy in cart. Without a moment to spare, he recovered and darted for the third magicians jaw. Jarred by the sudden sequence of events, he was unable to avoid Darian's quick hand and was slammed into crate.

For a split second,Darian leaned in, his steel helm only inches from the man's face. Into his eyes the magician glanced, struggling to escape Darian's iron grip, but it was like nothing was their to behold. An endless depth of ink, sorrow, and pain. He could barely see whites of his eyes nor the vessels that flowed through them. They were depths of hell holding a thousand souls yet there were none to be seen.

The man ceased to struggle for a moment, then died as Darian shoved a dagger into his gullet and up into his brain. He let the body fall then reached for his blade, squaring up to the last, struggling magician.