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

Such [i]fun[/i] they were having. 

Letting the attacks of the little ones wither and die against the wall of his shield had given him, by now, fairly robust insight— all things swung a blade, be it by flesh or by thaumaturgy, in a discernible pattern. As automatons it was rare for them to tire, but such was little concern to the southron knight. No matter how spirited and endurant the assault, eventually the dolls ran out of arms, ran out of blades.

When such time came, it was a simple matter of crushing them. Didn't matter how— flail, bash, or sabaton heel, all worked well as anything else. Swinging his flail low, he sent a pair in a high, scattered arc, the pieces clattering to the floor a beat later, in the mage's wake. A glance over the shoulder, as Velvetica's orders sailed in from behind.

Couldn't have said it better himself. A fortune for their fellows that he was old and wise enough that his hot blood—

[color=993333]"Ma'am."[/color] he grunted, punting one of the lesser dolls clear from her path as she skidded to a halt close by. [color=993333]"Almost done back here. Go enjoy yourself."[/color]

— hadn't boiled over at the opportunity to earn some petty glory by excelling in breaking something to shards, limb by limb. For the Goddesses' sake, the rowdy youth that had boisterously presented a bandit's head to an early holding court would have gotten them all stung to death by these little bees.

A rising star like theirs, burnt out by a rookie mistake like that? Bah.

No.