Sonja spots the group, her coal eyes narrowing as they spied the Prince. In battle it is not good to let one's hatred lead one's actions, and Sonja knows this yet she has trouble containing herself. From her tree-branch, she takes in the scene, the Prince, five other men. Only five? Her own men and women were crudely trained, having to train in secrecy and pretty much fighting with inferior equipment, yet they had numbers on their side. She could only hope it would be enough.<br/><br/>The waiting was the worst, seeing their opponent without being able to do anything until the signal, many of the younger members of the rebellion shifted and almost seemed to chafe under their forced stillness. Yet the older members, those who were lucky enough to survive and not be caught, knew that a premature call to action could swing the battle against them.<br/><br/>Finally the whole 'hunting' party cleared the edge of the wooded area, a point that Sonja figured it would be difficult if impossible to for anyone to turn and run back. A shrill whistle is given, loud and echoing against the trees, from the lips of Sonja does the call to action sound.<br/><br/>"Feuerball!" Sonja commands, feeling the comforting flow of power thread from herself. In her upraised hand a large globe begins to form, quickly though to her it seemed to take aeons. It burned and writhed, yet did not scorch her own palm. With a mighty toss, the Fireball was thrown, not directly at the Prince, but at the legs of the horses..hoping to scare their mounts to put them off guard even further.