The staff is a little creepy, but creepiness can be exonerated by usefulness, and that's exactly what happens as flames burst to life under the feet of the Dalish archers. Shrieks pierce the air--that and the bloom of heat tells Bellamy it's safe to drop his shield arm and move.

No fancy flourishes, no tricks. While the archers are distracted with the fire, Bellamy goes for the rogue, who has made nimble progress in closing the distance between herself and what's passing for their line of defense (also known as Herian). She pulls up short when she sees him coming, leaps back from the broad swing of his sword--and back again when he rushes her, bowls right into her and catches her chest with his shoulder. They go down hard, together, Bellamy's weight crushing the rogue to the dirt--but she's not done; she spits in his face, heaves up one arm to stab at his arm. The leather of his armor protects him, and Bellamy twists, drives his elbow into her face.

On the field, the Dalish mage has recovered his magic, and tendrils of some spell play between his fingers as he gathers his strength to himself. One of the archers has gained the treeline, disappeared into the shadows; several of the others lie on the grass, badly burned.