[He turns from Hector's knowing gaze, his jaw sharpening as he moves on ahead, his stride purposefully, defiant. Isaac may have turned his back on the idea of returning to the castle on its eventual return, but it lives inside him all the same, as does its culture of fierce competition and posturing. He can't say yes, can't bring himself to say it, even when his body betrays him, because forgemasters aren't supposed to ask for help.]

'tis nothing. ...'twill take far more than a few bolts sprinkled with the piss of a priest if they hope to kill me.

[He keeps his sweat-stung eyes to the darkness on the horizon, gaze darting briefly at any sound he can't place or with the feelings on the periphery of his awareness. His lungs shouldn't burn; it shouldn't be this hard, keeping up with Abel's lazy wing beats. He gives his head a brisk shake to clear it, annoyed with himself. Sooner rather than later, he'd need Abel to burrow its claws into him and pick out every burning piece of metal.]

These are hunters by no means as capable ['Or as pretty', he might have mused, in a lighter mood] as the Belmont. But 'twould seem they have recruited men of magic to further their glorious cause. [After a while, he finally slants Hector a look from the corner of his eye.] There is time to fashion yourself a crude weapon. But work quickly.

[Rocks, branches. Not much in the ways of useful raw material, but it's a start. Open that COMBINE menu!]