How the Mighty Fall

Poisonhook kept running along the hollow, groaning inwardly about his robe collapsing like it did. The dead grass crunched under his claws, kicking up behind him slightly as he raced away...

Then there was a faint crackle, and a hint of ozone in the air, and then a series of loud screams, growing increasingly distant. He stopped running and stood up, looking out of the hollow.

One of the goblin warriors lay dead on the ground, trails of smoke rising from his body. His metal helmet was half-fused with his head. His minions were all running away from the elf atop the hill... swerving to avoid the onrushing group of goblins, led by another bellowing, axe-wielding warrior, who seemed unconcerned about the fate of his fellow.

Given how magic worked, it wasn't an unreasonable assumption. The elf might not be able to cast the spell a second time...

"Target the leader!" He heard the elf call out, and he nodded silently, mentally flicking through his options. Throwing knife - too weak. Mark of Pain - too powerful, and too reliant on others. Outer Beauty - ha ha, no, no chance.

That just left Sleep.

The raptor raised his hands up to beside his head and then brought them down in a flicking motion, palms up. He took a deep breath and let it go slowly, a small pile of pale golden dust building up in each palm. The goblins grew closer, the ground pounding under the feet of their wargs. Poisonhook waited for a moment, letting them get just a little bit closer to him, then raised his hands to his mouth and blew out.

The dust swept off his palms in a rising arc, and then vanished into the air. A few moments later, it reappeared, drifting straight into the lead goblin's face and threading its way through the eyeholes in his helmet to enter his eyes.

The goblin hesitated for a moment on his ride, then gently, almost in slow motion, fell off the back of his warg and hit the ground with a loud clatter. Two of his minions reigned their steeds in, looked down at him, and then turned and quietly trotted off, but the third skirmisher kept charging, apparently not even noticing his leader's collapse.

Poisonhook jumped out of the gully and hurried up the hill towards the elf. About halfway up, he looked back over his shoulder, and winced slightly. The goblin warrior was slowly getting up, using his axe to support his weight as he got back to his feet. Once he had righted himself, he bellowed a warcry and charged towards the hill... though his warg had run off, and it would take him a while to reach the hill on foot.

It would be enough. It would have to be enough.