Lucky, then, that Flint is by and large quicker than one might guess. Amidst the din of metal clashing on metal and the guttural atmospheric snarl of some magic being worked uncomfortably close (all the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up at the sound), he takes that step back generously allotted to him.

What he doesn't do is kick his boot back into the crossbow's stirrup, draw its arms, scramble after a bolt, reload, and fire into the fray of Templar on Scoutmaster. That he only has so many shots is an entirely subconscious consideration. If there any calculation occurs in the moment whatsoever, it's one of seconds. Fifteen to reload the crossbow. A fraction of that for the Templar's ugly sword to come hammering down again after Yseult.

"Down!" He shouts, and trusts it will at least prompt her to turn her face.

An instant later, the acrid snarl and stench of alchemical fire erupts across the back of the Templar's shoulders, the contents of the hand grenade mercurially chasing after and igniting against any taste of water, on sweat tinged layers glimpsed in the gaps of plate armor.

The crossbow bolts might be easily dismissed, but catching fire apparently warrants some consideration from the person inside the armor.