"Mn," Raising soldiers. The city spent them, in that final stand, "Ghislain rationed our razors."

The Infirmary had knives, and a daily count of the knives, and no one would have loved him stringing one to a stick - a preference perhaps justified by the uncontrolled arc he cuts, staff and blade crashing slippery from palms to dirt.

Off-mark. Isaac stoops to collect, huffing with effort. Nothing for it save practice,

"You know, I haven't cast with a staff in years. Not regularly." A shortcut to flame, and little else; light enough to toss for the work does best by hand. "It's always a sign something’s gone to shit."

He hefts to swing again.