He places himself between Myr and Melys, and the last of the wolves who, undaunted by the circle of flames, lunge through it to meet their ends. He will give himself time to feel a pang of bitter pity for the poor creatures once they've been put out of their misery and the danger has passed. For now, he metes out death unrelentingly, until the last of the blight wolves gives a pained groan and collapses to the boggy earth under the weight of his blade.

Winded, he jerks the sword out and drags the back of his gauntleted wrist across his brow, then turns to look to the two the group had formed the protective circle around. He won't patronize them by crouching before them, asking if they're all right; they aren't.

"Clear," he says breathlessly instead, and waits for the flames to recede.