A fellow with a hawk’s head mask steps forward, as though he’s finally conjured the courage to do so. He lifts a crude club and shouts, “For the lich!”
He charges the gang. Shyan gets her shield up as Cang darts to an acute angle to get behind the hawkhead. Hawkhead is clumsy, though, his nascent bravery no cover for poor training. He enters Shyan’s reach, his club still way over his head, and she effortlessly loosens her weapon and brings it out with an arcing flourish, through which hawkhead can’t help but pass.
His newly-repaired armor cracks and sunders, and within, his flesh opens and bleeds. He falls to his knees Cang stops short as his buddies surround him, their horror palpable.
“Wait,” says Fassn, in a voice imperious. His brow is straight and his jaw firm. “Allow me.” His hands up, he slowly approaches the dying man. His friends bristle, but are cowed by Fassn’s serious manner, and fractionally give way.
Fassn lays a filthy hand on the hawk’s beak. The man inside quivers.
For the second time that day, Fassn calls on Old Ajralan, and Old Ajralan answers with a blast of shining light — and hawkhead’s wound is healed.