Book One, Chapter Two, Post Thirteen

With the targets of his initial ire vanished, Flynn turns back to the dining hall and sees the second ogre is now on its feet. Even flinching at the thunder suddenly all around him from Malean’s weapon, he sees the ogre swatting at something. He leaps in to take advantage and attack.

Tyrects turns away from the vanishing pale elf with a throaty growl, searching for a place to redirect his rage. He charges the ogre, holding the club over his head and bring it smashing down as he nears the creature.  While most of the other attacks are missing the hulking brute, Tyrects manages to land a solid blow.

Then, from across the room, another piece of cacophonous lead flies to strike the ogre in the chest. Already wounded from attacks he took while in his humor fit, the ogre staggers and, like a tree falling, crashes to the ground.

Everyone pauses to look around. Many stoop to help friends or mourn the dead. Some go to finish dousing the fire.

Terrence looks around for the director. "I say! Who were those fiends? Shall we track them down? Split their skulls possibly?" He is holding an untouched serving of cobbler in each hand, one of which he holds outstretched toward Flynn.

Adrenaline leaving his system, Flynn slowly lowers himself into a chair. Absentmindedly, he accepts the cobbler and takes a bite. He savors it for a moment, then suddenly makes a face and sets the plate on the table. "Ugh. Too sweet... Not really my thing."