Indrys stares, his mouth gaping open, as Thorus rides off to engage in single combat with the bandits' supposed leader. Declaring your intent to charge into battle and then proceeding to charge into battle did not count as a plan! "You--!"
he sputters. And then, "He--!"
It's at around that moment that his brain kicks in, having recovered enough from the shock and surprise to do so, and he comprehends Thorus' intent. "He's right,"
he says to the others. "Attack their rear and draw them away from the wagons!"
With that, the elf spurs his own horse and follows after the bloodthirsty Thorus. When his mount brings him within one-hundred and ten feet of the more heavily armored bandit, Indrys reaches into a pouch at his belt and retrieves a pinch of fine sand and three dried rose petals. Rubbing it all together and staining his fingertips in the process, the magician recites a quick, musical incantation before directing the resulting spell towards Thorus' intended target. If the magic has the intended effect, the brutish bandit should find himself overcome by an overwhelming drowsiness, bringing an untimely and yet undeniably overdue end to the rapscallion's reign of rampant ne'er-do-wellism.