Rude.

But how mad can he really be? She's better from a distance, and Ellis prefers to be as close as he can. All the better to put his mace to work, and forgo the borrow and barter of spell work.

Backpedaling, he grabs for the handle of his mace as the creature descends. There's not time to get a proper grip, but his first swing clips beak or snout, enough to hold it's attention. Enough to keep it angry and focused on him, he's hoping. If it gets back into the air then he'll be set back again. There's blood dripping down onto his face from the wounds Fitcher's created. This close, he can smell the sickly scent of rot and the scent of charred wood. This close, it's harder to avoid the sharp swipe of claws.

"Fitcher! Fitcher!"

It occurs to him suddenly: just where did she take off to? To find a better vantage point or to leave this mess for Ellis to finish?