Ari/Gillian/Ophion/Ash/Ceres
The mage braced himself as the bombs increased in number. With a soft grunt, he steadied his footing, shoes digging into the ground. His face already contorted from concentration and irritation only twisted into a deeper frown. The smell of burnt skin and metal scorched his nostrils.
He glanced to the bard before returning his gaze to their attackers. The mage was accustomed to covering those of the Bards Guild. (And they had done the same, had they not? There swam a vision of a dark-haired woman who stands at his side when he has naught but a grudge.) He shook the thought aside, gave a small nod to the samurai—Goodwin, her name was—as she kept cover.
He sidestepped, eyeing the mime. A deep breath to regain focus, then he drew magic into his hands and aimed another icy spell at an approaching bomb.