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When his spell has a lackluster effect, in that it only defeats one of the two bandits that he had targeted, Indrys is more irritated than worried. The apt pupil that he is, there are more spells at his disposal – more than enough, surely, to take care of a few dirty highwaymen. The elf is midway through preparing another incantation when he is interrupted by thin, reedy whistle that terminates in a soft, meaty thunk that is followed immediately after by an agonizing pain in his left thigh. When he looks down to see the shaft of a poorly-constructed arrow sticking out of the bloodstained white fabric of his pants, Indrys begins to worry, but he was not yet panicked. The panic comes when he looks back up just in time to be struck in the chest by a bolt of magical energy that bypasses the protective layers of his coat and slams into him with the force of a crossbow bolt, knocking the wind from his chest and forcing him to the edge of consciousness. His spell now thoroughly forgotten, Indrys thinks only of escape. He was wounded, badly, and the dwarf Glaffin was a healer. One plus one equals survival, and so the bleeding magician turned his horse about and sent it charging back across the field of battle towards his new best friend.

When he reaches the other spellcaster, his words are as jumbled as his thoughts: “Glaffin! Help me! It wasn’t… I can’t…!” His eyes are wide and staring, and he looks paler than usual, like he’s going to be sick.