This wasn't how he'd expected it to happen.

	  Kall ran a hand over his brow, brushing back the sweaty fringe that 
sought to fall into his face.  The field was nearly deserted at this late 
hour, and God, the bodies were numerous and he could no longer tell who was
 part of which army.  There was a handful of tattered men still standing, 
but none of them sought to face him, none had drawn sword or raised magic 
against him, and so could be dismissed.

	  He was beyond tired at this point, having faced that and exhaustion hours
 ago.  The final resistance had been more than the token one that D.S. had 
been expecting, and somehow the four of them had been seperated.  Miles 
apart now, if the distant scent of magics was any indication.  They had 
been a sea of mortals, tossing themselves at D.S. and his crew like lemmings
 from a cliff.

	  The magic in the distance spiked and shuddered, then seperated 
into two forms; one familiar, that hot fire was D.S., Kall would know his 
magical sense anywhere, the other varied and shifting, bulging like a poorly made quilt.
  He didn't recognize it.  It felt powerful enough to give Schneider 
difficulty and that was saying something.

	  He whispered the words and flicked one hand, raising into the air as the 
forces clashed again.