[center][h3][color=00aeef]Ianthe[/color][/h3][/center] Well, that couldn’t be good. In her admittedly numbered years, Ianthe had seen men turn tail and flee when faced with greater numbers or a lost cause. Wild animals, too, shared a similar instinct for self-preservation. Fiends, however…fiends didn’t care if they died, they hardly cared that they were alive in the first place. Fiends didn’t run. Luna hissed beside her, flinching as if she’d been struck. Ianthe whirled, shield raised, putting Luna between herself and the other front-liners. Artemisia, while some steps away, was at least still standing and apparently unharmed. Ianthe kept her in her peripherals as she scanned the backend for whatever might have struck their nervous archer. Her hand, gripping the hilt of the blade at her side, still hesitated to draw it. [i]Not yet,[/i] she thought. [i]Split hands, split mind. Wait. Wait ‘til it’s needed.[/i] But nothing came. The fog grew heavier, sinking to the earth and pooling at their feet, but there was no sign of their assailant. She made a quick, sharp hiss to Artemisia, nodding for her to come closer to the group. Something told her the mysterious woman had more than a few tricks of up those viridian sleeves, and they’d need the arms still attached to make use of them. Blaike, who she saw with the steadiest flick of her eyes was within comfortable reach of Mitra, put forth the idea that they split up, and Ianthe nearly broke form to gawk at him. She supposed under normal circumstances, that might have carried some merit. Splitting up against human foes was, well, suicidal at best—and, really, at worst—but fiends had no mind for strategy, or lack thereof, and could perhaps have been…surprised? But these were clearly not normal fiends, which only made the need for closeness even more pressing. Whatever science he had studied in Alexandria, it had not been the science of war. Luna winced again, and Ianthe adjusted, cursing herself for missing yet another strike. Only, no, there had been no attack. Luna wasn’t injured, she was…oh, dear. [color=00aeef]“Easy, easy,”[/color] Ianthe offered, quiet and gentle-like, as she’d spoken to a few of Argo’s more nervous defenders in the past. [color=00aeef]“We’ve got you. String up that harp.”[/color]