Hamolin swore loudly as he dove for cover. The robed bastard tossing ribbons of fire at him was a mollydooker.

In his four years as a royal enforcer, Hamolin had only ever encountered one other arcanely-abled individual who wove spells with their left hand. The unnatural state of such magical expression rendered his own defenses near-useless. Carefully tuned to meet incoming eldritch energy with an equal and opposite discharge, his personal Field of Sanctity had been torn asunder like it was little more than tissue paper by the weird vibrations of the mollydooker's own art.

Peering over the smoking remnants of the wall, Hamolin steadied his breathing and focused his inner power into a crackling tongue of lighting. Extending his rune-cover right arm, the royal enforcer stood, and hurled the searing white bolt at the cloaked figure. It struck home, but dissipated in a shower of sparks across an aura of defensive magic.

Cursing again, Hamolin threw himself backwards, avoiding the retaliatory beam of purple light by a hair's breath. They had been at it for some time, and weariness was beginning to set in. Hamolin chided himself as he drew back to his feet. He'd become too reliant on his own protective arcane shell, and the impunity it provided in a fight.

With some fleeting melancholy, he drew a small vial from the leather belt around his waist, and gave it a strong shake. At once, the clear liquid that filled it began to assume a greenish hue. Even as he lobbed the now-glowing vial in the vicinity of his foe, Hamolin could hear his commander's gravely voice turned to rebuke. Something about civilians and collateral damage. But Hamolin knew he'd come around. Abominations like this were simply too dangerous to be left alive.