The concussive blast of his mighty bolt was impressive, but Storm quickly saw that the devastating effect on the church didn’t do terribly much to his opponent. The pale little shit had created a literal smoke screen, and quickly began charging at the wizard under the guise of what equated to little more than a dust cloud.

Peasant. What’s next, an arrow?

Using the metal soles on his shoes, the lithe aristocrat quickly burst an electromagnetic pulse below him, sending him gliding safely some ten feet in the air as the stranger’s cloud of smoke began to dissipate. Gazing intently, there was a handful of them now, all the same size but foisting a litany of macabre looking weapons. It was quite a feat, although Storm couldn’t help but reason that they were playing right into his hand.

So it’s a blunderbuss instead of a cannonball, then? I’ll use one of your minions like a wrecking ball. Child’s play.

The charging gathering of little awfuls all appeared to be uniformly clad in metal; a terrible misfortune the practiced politician was simply delighted to exploit. He focused on the invader in the front, a grisly, fly-soaked festering mass of stink that ran forward with a bloodthirsty malice. An automaton of death. Storm remained suspended in the air, holding his right hand open and then closing it, forcing the armor of the little monster closed around whatever atrocity lie within the torso.

Crickets. Well, of course he’s not fully real.

The one in front at least was either an image, a shadow, or some sort of unearthly incantation. Their weapons looked real enough, he conjectured, as the magician continued to hover effortlessly.

“Whore!”

As if shot by a bullet, Storm’s concentration was unanimously folded, sending him tumbling to the earth in a heap of dust and agony. He managed a tiny last pulse of force before landing to soften the fall, but only managed one hand of faint energy, as his left hand rifled to attend to the injury. His left calf was torn wide and bleeding fast, a burgundy stream pouring through his dress pants and over the heels of his fine shoes. He tore the fabric back and witnessed the perfectly clean wound, unsure of where or how or what sorcery this little bastard had imbued unto him.

Scrambling, the toxic smell of cuprous air filled his lungs as he hovered his hand over the wound, tiny filaments of white lightning darting back and forth with searing pain. His body burned from this, an exhausting, terrible maneuver, but his wound was quickly cauterized and the bleeding had ceased.

“The fuck was that? Got Alerar elf magic in you, you little shit?” Storm’s eyes were pulsing white, a rage festering in him as his nostrils flared. He had responded quickly, but was significantly injured and blended confusion with raw ire. Sweat had gone from light formation to a steady bead on his forehead, and his shirt had become tacky to his chest in mere moments. This enemy was no pushover; whatever ill-gotten gypsy horseshit the fly-covered monstrosities wielded, it was considerable. If these nefarious powers could be harnessed, they’d be very useful to the Brotherhood…

If I leave enough of you for us to use.

Rage continued to grow in the felled wizard, whose body now hummed with a crackling, sizzling energy. The handful of mystical cretins was close; perhaps their armor wasn’t real, but if they were to be feared, their weapons would be. Raising to one knee, a sneer crawled across the magician’s face. With a deep inhalation, his lungs buzzed with electromagnetic power, his hands firing behind his hips to retrieve his daggers. Not a moment later, his fists pounded the ground before him, a thick bead of energy arcing across the raised dagger tips as a massive pulse of energy burst about him. This electromagnetic pulse would repel metal violently, and hopefully buy the furious Storm Veritas a moment to catch his breath and retake his feet.