Ceannric struggled to his feet, reaching back to grope at where he still felt the sting where the arrow had pierced his chainmail--and his back. He wasn't sure just what had happened there...all he knew was that the fight in the woods had gone south pretty quick, and no one had yet gained possession of the grimoire. That idiot Kenku probably still had it, walking around babbling about "shinies". He looked up at the sky and sighed, not for the first time today. Was this funny, you joker gods? Having a good laugh, are you?
He felt the familiar tingle in his fingertips, and the slight feeling of lassitude that always followed use of his magical healing, but the only wound he could find was that blasted arrow hole, even now all but closed up from the entropic energies of this realm. That meant one thing--the bastard archer must have been sitting there just waiting for him to finish his spell, then plugged him square in the back. The churl. He wouldn't have been surprised if it was one of those sellswords, what were they called again? The Black Dog Company? Black Sky? Black Llama? Black something-or-other. But no, none of them had had any bows today, and besides, they had agreed to fight together with the Portal Guard until one of the other got hold of the book, and then they'd renegotiate. He'd hired them on at the Autumn moot for a promise of alcohol, and surprisingly they had stayed true to the agreement. It hadn't helped any, of course, the Thalossians had still taken the portal orb, but at least there was some honor among thieves, it seemed.
Damn portals. Lock one down on its pedestal and ten more open up elsewhere. That was the only explanation for all the new faces out today. And apparently the portals were becoming less discerning & methodical, as virtually all the new arrivals were raw neophytes, some of whom had never even held a sword. So much for a method to the madness. Well, there was nothing for it...if we all were going to be our own worst enemies and squabble over power like chickens over spilt feed, then the more warm bodies on his side the better. Or, at least, the more warm bodies to push into the path of arrows. Feckin' archers.
He rubbed his back and trundled out to the field.