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

Automatons, motion breathed into vague facsimiles of blessed, incarnate form, arose as a swarm around the Lions, a dervish within the tomb. Blades flashed, clattering and clicking artifice threatened to engulf the force, a death by a thousand cuts to herd their troop into the wooden golem the witch had chosen as her initial champion.

Iron whirled. Streaking comets fell upon the shadows. Sparks flashed as the dolls tore against a mighty shield, only to receive a crushing blow to scatter them in turn.

No matter how sharp or chaotic the wind that surrounded them, it would break upon a wall. Istvan knew well the value of harassing from the flanks, encircling, nipping at heels to tire and overwhelm a foe, pulling their attention and strength apart thread by thread. It was how he had built his prestige within the Demet lands, how he had wrangled common brigands into dedicated raiders, how he had hunted mighty stags in the forests, flanked by well-bred hounds.

He knew the game, and how it in turn was broken.

[color=993333]"I have your backs!"[/color] he called, bashing aside another of the lessers as he stomped over to guard the rear of the party, filling the hole left in the "vanguard's" rear line as they focused on the largest of this Witch's examinations. Between his large frame, crushing blows, and sweeping range, he was sure he could lock this area down.