For a brief moment, Lewin found himself fascinated. Not only did the inquisitor's bodyguard wield magic, but after attacking, his mouth was moving. And so was the inquisitor's.<span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #808040">You think you have time for talk? Lack of direct combat leaves you complacent, inquisitors.</span></span>He let the thunder surge through him only briefly, and the heat of the fire fazed him less than a lazily flicked sponge. To counteract further attacks of thunder and heat, Lewin immediately called on the spirits of the deep land, inhabitants of the bedrock. His skin turned grey and patched, like a cobbled street. Rudely interrupting what he was certain was a very impressive and / or intimidating monologue, Lewin dashed straight for Haeftin, and in the blink of an eye, the high-held bastard sword swept in a swift arc. Lewin viasualized the blade cutting a clock from two o' clock to seven, and if his attack was not stopped, from seven to three and from three to eight. His every step was deliberate, the weight constantly kept on the outside of his feet so it could be easily reversed. All the while, he made sure he always had at least one clean exit, even though he didn't think regular troopers would want to get anywhere close to two magic-users who were duking it out. Flame and plastma wildly flying around set aside, they may be hinders or helps for either side with equal ease.