Slightly widened eyes were still rapidly flickering from one object to another, scanning the surroundings in a manner which seemed more nervous than wary. And he [i]was[/i] nervous, frightened even, a fact that was further apparent from the occasional reflexive twitch of his poised wings triggered by nearby activity, hastened irregular breathing, tensing muscles and the peculiar expression on his face. - His teeth were bared, but not in a human smile ... rather, his lips were drawn back in a manner that aimed to reveal the most of them - longer, sharper and more powerful than a human's like his teeth were, even if no match for a werepyre's fangs - in a quite threatening fashion, truly in a hateful snarl worthy of a cornered predator. [i]Come closer, and I am going to rip your throat out.[/i] Well, perhaps not quite with his teeth as a wild predator would - he was no actual beast, after all -, but the very essence of the implied message remained the same. 
And as far as being cornered went ... he was not cornered. He was something worse - he was [i]surrounded[/i]. Surrounded, out in the open, [i]and[/i] on the bloody - both literally and figuratively - ground, furthermore so while amongst perfectly flight-capable beings. There were very many things his instincts found wrong with this kind of setting. Under an open sky, his place was supposed to be somewhere higher up.
Amidst of it all, there was nevertheless one thing which stayed completely steady and unwavering: his aim, now that he had finished loading and raised his gun. The firearm was one more thing between himself and the werepyres, one more thing between a successful defense and being mauled to death. This, at least, was good. 

The mercenary who had summoned him offered a somewhat generic greeting at the strange woman who had caught his eye earlier on, and then turned to him. The man was sounding exhausted, even if he apparently did his best to remain polite and well-mannered. 
 - "Break", the mercenary had called the strange woman, a rather mundane word and furthermore an odd one for a name, raising the question whether it was indeed a true name and whatever kind she was had uncanny traditions of naming or it was an identifier she herself had picked for herself, much like his own name was something he himself had come up with, though his was a strand of vaguely good-sounding random letters and as far as he knew carried no meaning whatsoever. And if the name was her own choosing, then why would a person name herself Break?
[i]'Break did the werepyre...'[/i] the winged man thought to what was probably a some kind of tune, and right after that concluded that at some point amidst the stress of prolonged battle and being in a position his instincts screamed to avoid he must have gone insane. He could not even sing, for what it was worth - not in a way that would be particularly pleasant to listen to, anyway, he assumed, not that he could not try regardless.
He glanced at the woman in question - his eyesight was excellent, but now that she was at such a short distance he could have just stretched out his wing and literally touched her, he could really get a closer look at her. Up close, she looked no less semi-material and strange. Pretty. But strange. Eerie. She appeared to have no feet, just blurry nothingness where the limbs should have ended. A part of him wondered whether it was even possible to touch her, or a reaching hand would meet only resistanceless aether. Perhaps it depended on her will. She did not appear to mind the carnage around them, and a leisure flick of wrist conjured up a whip which behaved much more like an extension of her than an actual object. It was good that she was allied to them - from what he had seen, he would rather face five of the damn beasts alone and unarmed than get on the wrong side of this woman.

[i]“Just looking to keep our line intact so that you guys can still give them hell. The commanders seem to be dropping like flies. Someone’s got to keep the morale in check, lest we lose on this day.”[/i]
Morale? What morale? If the folks here were rational beings they would realize that as soon as they give up, they are dead. It was no longer the city they we fighting for - it was just one last desperate try to survive. That, however, did not explain why he was still there, being capable of surviving the wild and outmaneuvering the werepyres in the air. Principles, he guessed. The city had not given him much, his friend was most likely already dead, and most of the people here would have considered him a pest on a normal day. Had he been a sane person, he would not be here. 
There was probably a reason why angels were usually depicted as humans with painfully dysfunctional wings haphazardly glued to their backs rather than beings which actually had the proper build and musculature to enable flight. Humans often[i] hated[/i] inhuman-looking things. His brownish-green skin, facial spikes, somewhat birdlike feet and the fact that his wings were of the membraned rather than feathered kind probably made things worse. As for him? He hated neither human nor inhuman unless they personally gave them a good reason to hate them - and he was, all things considered, a rather tolerant person.

"I'll fight till there is no other defender but me left," he remarked. Of course, he might die, but that was a possibility he was intentionally excluding for the time being.
The mercenary meanwhile managed to take down a werepyre - more through sheer luck than skill, as his lack of confidence in handling the weapon suggested - and spent several moments loading the weapon in silence before answering his other question. 
[i]“Now that you mention it, it bothers me as well. Now that you mention it, there are a lot less werepyres than the previous skirmish. What…”[/i] and there the man was cut short, as a barrage of the creatures burst forth from the forest - smaller ones, true, but werepyres regardless - and those ones, unlike their bigger kinsmen, had no reservations towards flight. 
[i]“We both had to have said something, didn’t we?!”[/i] Auroreon roared, and Narandail was not entirely certain whether the man was joking - on the battlefield? - or not. He was too much of a pragmatic mind to believe in jinxing something with a spoken common word and there was no possibility anyone not within a quarter dozen yards could have heard them.
"Would you like to employ me as your resident oracle?" he shouted back, not removing his eyes from an approaching werepyre, his gun lifted and ready. If the other man was making remarks that made no sense viewed from purely realistic standpoint, then he could answer with the same. Helps the morale, he guessed. 
The werepyre was getting nearer... Steady, steady... Too far, and he risked missing, too close and he risked getting the beast atop of himself. And then he fired. 

Being shot in the face with a large caliber at a very close range did not look pretty, especially when the face in question had not been particularly pretty to begin with. 

The werepyre reflexively reached up to its face, as if to try to remove what had hit it, but at the same time its step got mixed up and it fell forward onto the ground. Narandail swung his gun over his shoulder - no time to reload - and took his spear into his hand. [i] Too close![/i] One of his wing-arms shot forward in a controlled quarter-arc and tore out the windpipe of another beast, and then the wings snapped open and were brought down in a powerful beat. He was in the air, and every wingbeat was carrying him higher. He would be above them, and then he would attack. In the corner of his eye, he saw the two responding to the attack ... what was she doing!?