"Thank you -" Lazar huffs, and throws himself behind carthweels. A stolen pony screeches at the intrusion, kicks an inch past his skull. "- 'S Ostwick, you're supposed to call 'em cunts!"

They're Marchers. That's friendly! He fumbles blade to hand, glancing up just in time to catch Astrid's shot. Right sharp -

- Right distracting. Look back: Lad with the hatchet is closing, too fast to find his feet. Lazar spits some Ander curse (poxes, Darkspawn) and slashes the pony's crude tether. It bolts for the road, knocking axe over teakettle.

"Elf's still got my swords," Donny Six-Pricks or whoever that reedy fuck was, "But he didn't look like much -"

A figure rises: Thin, elegant. Robed. His hands pull open onto lightning.