“I was born ready,” Astrid declares (only, oh no, that sounded so much cooler in her head). She gathers her legs under her, toes against the soles of her boots against the ground, and she watches Lazar for the moment he springs into motion. Like waiting for a hare about to bolt.

When he finally leaps out, presenting a juicy target for the bandits, there’s the briefest moment to admire his speed, the strength sending that sword swinging up. She waits one second — enough for them to take the bait — and then she’s popping up like a jack-in-the-box.

Looking for where the mage last stood. He’s aiming for Lazar, more energy crackling at his fingertips. Astrid lets go.

A clean shot against such a stationary target, the arrow embeds itself in his throat and he tumbles backward, gurgling, the electricity flying wild and loose over their heads. There’s someone up close being kept busy with Lazar, but another swordsman slips past, too close into Astrid’s range. She drops the bow and swings a fist instead, and then they’re a scrambling flurry of limbs and the flash of his dagger: she’s slammed against the side of the bridge, loose mortar crumbling, and she knees him between the legs, a hissing spitting angry cat.