The pony goes barreling through the bandits, knocking some over like bowling pins, charging past them to disappear down the road. At the same time, Astrid’s been looking through the group, trying to pick out the elf as a target — the bandits all look equal states of grubby and unwashed and disheveled, although at least the elf would be smaller — but then, well, he makes himself known.

“Oh,” Astrid says, and “Fuck.”

She dives, swiveling to not land on her bow, taking refuge behind the cart with Lazar. It’s stacked high with empty crates, which must have belonged to the bridge’s previous victims: merchants’ goods looted and taken as tithe. Lightning crackles overhead, and she can taste the ozone in the air, her hair rising and turning even more voluminous with static. Ugh.

The Avvar tries to poke her head up to get a view for another shot, but there’s another flash of white-blue light. So she sinks back down, jostling shoulder-to-shoulder with Lazar, trying to cram both of them back here.

“Is this a good time to mention I’ve never fought someone who’s got magic?”