Molc had taken post in a decrepit room that gave him access to many openings, with a wide view upon the battlefield, his hold upon his weapons was steady and confident, but his heart was beating quickly, he could see how his allies were being easily pushed back and defeated by the weakened Loimos, he felt at ease that none had died yet, even if they failed, they could always run away.
Knowing that running was only delaying the inevitable, he gritted his teeth, putting down his trusty crossbow, its pulling force enough to shoot bolts capable of stopping a charging bull on its own, but it was severely lacking, but snapping a piece of wood covered in runes, he called forth something greater, a proper ballista.
