Arnathy looked to the ground in horror, staring at the pile of charred plate armour that lay where his friend once stood. He rose his sword into the air and shouted his battle cry. "For Lordaeron!" He charged toward the black cloaked figure, unsure--perhaps uncaring--of his own fate. As Arnathy moved foward a small flame gathered in his opponent's hand. Twenty paces from his enemy--the figure extended its hand and the flame vanished. Ten paces--the guard pulled his sword back and to his side, preparing to cleave the witch in two. Two paces--Arnathy dropped his sword and fell to his knees.