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Auberon never figured the urge to turn away from his objective and look back would be so strong. Not out of fear for himself - he was armored in faith that no pathetic sword of the wicked could pierce - but with the intrusive thought that he'd only be met with one of his classmates skewered on a pike when he next turned around. Normally a good thing to be aware of, but he knew the sight would only make him hesitate, and hesitation was a flaw that turned strong men into weak men and weak men into corpses. The frontliners beside him were doing admirably, he only needed to have faith that the others were just as capable and that the Goddess would shield those who weren't.

When the wave of magic washed over him, the blond only grew more resolute. Knowledge that everyone behind him was protected by something of that magnitude soothed his heart in equal measure to the aching muscles and bruised flesh. At Michail's call to charge, Auberon obeyed despite not having caught his breath yet. Probably for the best; if he started breathing through his nose again, he'd have to smell his surroundings, and he didn't need to be experienced in war to recognize the carnage around him couldn't have been pleasant to any of the senses.

They didn't get far; something came hurtling at Michail that Auberon briefly mistook for some type of siege weapon, though the projectile was shaped far too much like a woman to be a ballista bolt. The source may as well have been a siege engine, given his size - the boy wasn't sure if it was a man or a demonic beast they'd trained to hold an axe. Though with the way he was dressed up in regalia fit only for a dirt-eating peasant that thought himself a king, the man before them was obviously the leader of the band of sinners. Emphasis on [i]was[/i], with the way Derec smoothly maneuvered in for the attack. Auberon foolishly allowed himself to relax, only to watch the scene before him play out in a likely repeat of what had occurred when Euphemia first attacked him. He just grabbed Isolde and threw her like a pebble. His head snapped to where the duo fell, mind screaming at him to rush over but legs too tense to move. He hadn't seen any splashes of red - the axe missed, and the scene playing over and over in Auberon's mind confirmed it. Being hit with a girl as small as Isolde wasn't going to be fatal either, but then why hadn't they gotten back up? Should he go to them? What would he even do? Watch Derec die? Or run for the mages? Kill that overfed bastard that hurt his classmates? [i]Anything except freeze up like an idiot?[/i]

Deep breaths. He was the heir of Daphnel, not some blubbering child.

Logically, Auberon knew that he should leave the monster of a man to the professors. The oaf couldn't chase him and fend off someone as swift as the Kalonic siblings at the same time; it would be trivial to slip past if he kept his wits about him. This man was clearly a cut above the rest and Auberon was but a child playing at war for the first time; he had no business trying to contend at this man's level if he didn't have to. But this bastard had too much to answer for. An entire village lost their homes, their families, their very lives; Derec and Isolde laid in a crumpled heap in the dirt; Kayden had apparently been hurt; clearly someone was injured enough to warrant that massive splash of white magic - all through no fault of their own. There wasn't even a method to this madness - it was malice for the sake of it. Merely spitting on this apostate's corpse after Michail had cut him down wouldn't satisfy the rage in his soul. Auberon wanted to feel those flames in his veins again, to illustrate decisively that whatever pinnacle of mortal might this fool may have attained was nothing before the Goddess. Maybe he'd realize his folly in the moments before Auberon sent him to his eternal judgement.

The blond traded his axe to his non-dominant hand and knelt down to rip the spear out of the grasp of his last victim. The rear guard could handle the mages - Auberon wouldn't know what to do with a fireball coming at him anyway. An axe, though; he knew axes well. Like, for instance, that they were unwieldy enough to give a big man like that a problem when faced with projectiles, no matter how unassumingly fast he could move against Derec. Auberon hoisted the stolen weapon over his shoulder like a javelin and, after waiting for a clear shot, hurled it at the bandit leader while his axe was following through from a missed strike at Michail. It wasn't balanced for throwing, but at this range he figured he could at least land a hit that would get the brigand's attention.

[color=ffd700]"Is beating on women your only talent, fatass?! Maybe your manners will improve once I've trimmed you down to a healthier weight,"[/color] Auberon goaded, his axe held outstretched in challenge, [color=ffd700]"Or should I cut down the rest of your subordinates first to give you time for a snack?"[/color] This man was the one thing between them and their objective. If he burned brighter than anyone else and all eyes rested squarely on him, there was no more danger to his friends or the village.

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