Uncle Lalli grunted as he was shoved aside by Viivi in an awkward stumble, his eyes wide as he saw her get shot down mercilessly by the loyalist taking position at the stairs in a freak accident. It was a dear loss, but one the middle-aged man begrudgingly accepted. The mission to open the way was accomplished, the slamming of the heavy wooden bridge a sign of defiance. He had shed enough tears for the atrocities committed against not only his clan, but his homeland: after seeing his own son perish in his arms. Even when Sally was the next to bleed, he did not turn his eyes away from the despicable coward who attempted pleading for his life.

The man had seen good people beg for their lives before, groveling for the smallest scraps of charity, only to get kicked in the curb and left to waste away like roadkill. And this man, if he could even be called one at this point, was just like the rest of them, lifting a hand up to deceive, when the other was drawing a hidden gun. "Spring of cunts!" He yelled, and pulled the trigger.

Passing through the drawbridge was yet another member of the Henriksson family, a scrawny teenager with thick glasses and a pencil neck named Gustaf. He was no fighter, but as his family swore an oath to fight against the queen, he was forced to comply. He hoped he could hang back and let the other rebels push ahead, but soon found himself swept up with the mob as a moment of silence fell on the battlements from the constant belching of gunpowder. If any guards came in their way, he would cast an Ice Knife, conjuring a sharp icicle that would be thrown like a spear. It was not particularly devastating, but it was better than most downtrodden mages were capable of when it came to offensive sorcery.