[center][h3][color=993333]István Shilage[/color][/h3][/center]

A wet crunch served as herald to the spray of blood and bone as his mighty flail caved the skull of an overzealous pursuer, deep blues of night turning the sanguine crimson into a splash of artist's ink upon shining metal. As advertised, the raid division beneath his command had proven themselves vulgar, brutish, and infuriatingly callous when confronted with the cult's "sacred" effigies— and if the few insults that had pierced the din of the ensnarement process were anything to go by, far from above adding personal stakes to the provocation.

As one, they'd soared in return to the treeline, the fruits of their labor in tow— and as one, the incensed necromancers-to-be realized their deadly mistake. The woods sang with battle, the thrumming strings of bows and crossbows layering over the steady beat of sudden and violent melee. Istvan, towering over many, was the deep, bellowing bass drum as his flail and shield brought the full weight of his physicality to bear upon those entangled. He shattered bones, tore arteries, tossed weaker foes aside into the path of friendly archers— and all the while, seemed to relish the act of tearing into his foes, a demon in knight's dressing.

There would be few better distractions for an Assassin to be lost behind. An eternal advocate for smashing through flanks, he had begun to push in towards the center from the outskirts when Lambert elected to make her move.

[color=993333]"Die, die, die!"[/color]

As if a response to the merchant's squeaking call, the sudden burst of flame illuminated the man's rough-hewn frame as he kicked his latest victim into the dirt, eyes wide with adrenaline as they searched for his next. It was difficult to not imagine a manic grin beneath the steel of the helm, all trappings of nobility overtaken by combative vigor. Marching forward, the spilt blood began to fly as he swung [i]Meteor[/i] end of over end in his grip.