The first snap of a bowstring served as a signal, the flanking men charging at once. On Roxas' side, the lead swordsman staggered with an arrow piercing his chest. Another found its mark soon after, the projectile whizzing before punching through mail and shirt alike to find purchase in the flesh underneath. He faltered, falling to his knee with a wet gurgle, crimson spittle flowing out of his mouth.

As if uncaring of his fallen comrade, the axeman continued the charge and raised his poleaxe up high. A wide swing was incoming, partial blindness to be compensated by the sizeable arc. The third arrow found purchase in him, somewhere lower in the abdomen, yet whether drunk in adrenaline or the presence of a beer belly the man wasn't much hampered by the damage at the moment.

At the center, Tillius was up against a massively outclassed soldier that perhaps gained a moment of clarity of the fact mere moment before the shield impacted him like an unyielding rampart. Likely not expecting to be on the defensive, he only managed a token swing before his balance broke and he fell backward. A short stab gutted him through the belly before he's halfway down, the simple mail shirt not quite matching up to orcish strength. He impacted the ground, air driven out of his lungs for a moment before reality caught up, then a high-pitched squeal escaped his lips not akin to a pig in a slaughterhouse.

On the other side, a cone of frost buffeted the last pair of soldiers. Woefully unprepared for the sudden onset of winter, the two of them froze in their tracks - literally and figuratively - with ice rooting their boots and frostbite eating at any visible patch of skin. Both of them yelled in confusion, stumbling from their previous momentum before falling flat face-first thanks to their frozen footwear. The fall broke the rime holding them in place, yet even then they had trouble standing back up from the iced ground. Like fishes in a barrel, should anyone have the range or reach to get at them.