Grigor had no more than a few seconds to process it.

The bolt burrowed through his shirt, and deep into his shoulder. It was a good, clean shot. He shuddered as he imagined what would have happened had it struck its intended target, just a little higher...  

He moved his arm. Incredibly painful. Shoulder's clearly broken. 

He'd suffered worse, he knew how to deal with this. He'd need to start his breathing exercises.

As a performer, especially one the barbaric arts, keeping the show go on was ingrained deep into his psyche. Tolerating pain was part of his job description. 

He recalled his mantra, and thought of a sunny day on the porch, and a cold glass of lemonade... 

He blinked. He was getting shot at. S lie next to him, unconscious and possibly dying. One companion missing, the other left to find her. He was alone.

A bolt of bright-orange flame appeared in the center of his vision.

Grigor quickly ducked, and covered his head, and the bolt narrowly whisked over. 

He had a moment of pause. He reached for his backpack, and tossed it behind S's head. Hopefully the assailant wouldn't be able to fire around that. 

This was bad. That much was obvious, but it was especially bad that it was him in this situation.

A more versatile mage would easily be able to obscure themselves, and begin firing back. Decades ago, that's what he would've done. He was quite the water mage in his youth, he could've simply created a wall of water, dulling the flame and hiding them from sight.

But as he'd made progress with his mind, creating and developing his psychics, his connection to The Stream dwindled. Today, all the water magic he can do is make little droplets on his fingertips. For practical purposes, the only magic he was capable of anymore was mind-reading. 

Realizing that the next attack could come at any moment, Grigor ran towards his tent, diving behind as the hairs on his body stood on end. 

He had no options at this range. He was a sitting duck at this point. And all he wore was bedwear, his armor and shield remain tucked away in his pack. Even if he could reach his pack, he hadn't the time to equip any of it. 

His thoughts raced, as did his heart. He was well trained in the art of combat, and he'd been in countless fights in his time... But a vast majority of them had been in the arena, or pointless brawls from when he was a schoolboy. In truth, he'd been quite sheltered for most of his life. He could count the amount of times his life had been genuinely threatened while he was alone on a single hand.

He peeked his head out from behind the tent. It seemed like the backpack would give S just enough cover to not be a target. He assailant was far enough away that he probably wouldn't have an angle on S. Grigor prayed.

The rapidly-approaching bright orange bolt remined Grigor what that meant.

He quickly ducked his head behind the tent, putting most of his effort into maintaining his breathing exercises. He recalled again the taste of lemonade, and the bright sun beating heat upon his skin... 

He was thrust out of his fantasy by the great heat building up in front of him. 

The assailant wasn't aiming for him, he was aiming for the tent. Good thing he got his bag out... Bad thing he was losing his only cover...

He breathed, and thought of...

Nothing.

He slammed his good hand to his face, and wiped it down. This isn't a show, this isn't a game. His only cover was rapidly turning to ash, he didn't have a second to retreat inward.

He couldn't fight back here. At this distance, he was simply outmatched. 

Still, it was his duty as a man to protect his fallen companion, no matter the cost.

With that in mind, the only remaining option was to move. 

He reached for his sword- Ehk- He'd forgotten about his shoulder. He'd use his off hand, then.

He drew his blade, and with one final nod, in time with his breath, he leapt around the flames.

His duty lie straight ahead. So he charged, screaming a rallying cry just for himself. 

Though his ultimate destination was straight off, bull-rushing ahead would grant him a nothing more than a quick and graceless death. The next shot should be coming within the next few seconds. He couldn't yet see into their mind, but Grigor was confident in his years of experience dodging attacks. And his ability to employ that experience despite the overwhelming range difference. 

He ran with an erratic zig-zagged pattern, and a bolt of pure flame flew right past him.

At last, Grigor got a clear look at its origin. It came from the foot of a large bush, no more than a hundred yards away.  

He feared leaving S behind, but it was clear that their assailant would not relent. Not until he dealt with them himself.

A quick hundred yard sprint, injured and constantly under fire? A daring feat for an ordinary man... But Grigor was no ordinary man.

He zigged and he zagged with trained athleticism, bolts of flame flying past his body. Grigor's confidence increased with each dodge, choosing to believe that luck was not a factor.

"Damnit!" The winds carried the voice of the man in the bushes, just sixty yards away.

Nay, not a man. For what sort of man would conceal his presence at a distance, and attack during a time of rest? This was an unmistakable scoundrel by and by. This was the voice of a coward.

Grigor found himself smiling as he ran, fully prepared to deliver justice to this miscreant, just fifty yards away.

"Shaaat-" The voice shouted, satisfyingly shaky. "Alright, get 'em, bolt!"

'Bolt?' The man was talking to his bolts of flame? Hm. Perhaps there's more to this than he thought, the man may be mentally unwe-

"EHK-!"

A sudden pain in Grigor's left leg halted his zigging and zagging, sending him to the ground. Sharp animalistic fangs had dug deep into his lower leg.

Grigor's confidence faltered, and he desperately kicked his leg, trying to knock the fanged creature away... Only when he looked down, he found that there was nothing there at all, save for the holes in his pant and the bite marks on his leg.