The half-elf, in the first few seconds of the fight, took down one of them. The others joined the fray, each reaping their fair share of the 'harvest'; and just as the first fell in seconds, every few seconds, another one would fall to the spearman. They were simple creatures, these animated corpses; no need for flash, no need for fanciness, no need for anything beyond the absolute basics of tactics. No fake outs, no special moves; just maintaining the distance.<br/><br/>Occasionally, he 'pulled' some of them towards him, with a bit of excited movement to draw their attention. Most of the time he did this, it was to try and keep them from bum-rushing the archeress, who he assumed would not fair so well if they were to get within range of striking her.<br/><br/>He doesn't say anything, though. There's no shouts or screams, which he saw as foolhardy. That was an expenditure of air, that was a disruption of breathing, and while it might bolster their morale, it struck the seasoned mercenary as wasteful. His thoughts are kept to himself, of course; but his well-timed, well-placed, well-governed maneuvers and 'battle mannerism' said a lot about him.<br/><br/>Amidst the berserker like fury of some of the warriors, even the frenzied Valkyrie, he maintained his calmness and composure. The stillness of his emotions was a source of strength for him. It kept him safe. He couldn't rely on the others; there was only the vaguest semblance of teamwork. This was more a massive, chaotic melee than an organized battle, and it made him wary.