The Enchanter is startled to see Fiona - his superior, once, Grand Enchanter and a woman he very much looked up to. That respect had been crippled by the vote she had called at the peak of the unrest between Mage and Templar. Still, she had otherwise done well by the Circle, and had a historied and accomplished life. That she would join sides with the enemy, give those under her care to them as though they were coin to be spent... such was beyond unforgivable. The Maker would judge her, he knows, but that does not soothe the ache, the fury for the injustice of all the souls she led astray.

Brigham is late to stop the first blow, grateful for the Herald's barrier. He hurries to Daithi's side, casts a heal as hand brushes shoulder. He places himself squarely between Enchanter and Herald, the crackle of so much magic on the frigid mountain air blowing wisps of copper hair about his temples. He gestures with his staff, inscribing a glyph of neutralization in attempt to damp the woman's magic. Spreads his arms outward, then, wordless, the grip on his staff tight.