As the commotion began, Michael sat comfortably in his chair, smiling proudly at Claramond as she marched towards the brigands.  Even after she struck him, and Uwa and Gia had raced after to help her, he still sat in his seat, sipping at his mead.  A fight was breaking out, and he cared more for dipping a piece of his bread into his stew than to join it.  After his bite however, he rose from his chair and moved at a light half-jog towards the fray, adjusting the strap that held his cloak around his body.  He wasn't a brawler by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn't a frail scholar either.  He was built with fine muscles, used to the hard road and day after day of hiking and exerting oneself, but compared to a man who had served as a farm boy all his life, he was less impressive.<br/><br/>As he grew within range of the bustle, Michael made a light tap on the nearest foe, the flat of his palm touching their shoulder.  With a<i>Touch of Fatigue</i>, Michael swung out with his other hand in an attempt to slug his weakened adversary across the face.  While he wasn't about to break out his darker spells, or even a bolt of lightning or a sparking fingertip, he had no issues with weakening their foes with some invisible, cantrip-tier magic.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>