A bracing hand to Moran's arm in a moment where it seems opportune, as the assailants flailing in their direction fall back. Perhaps it would be different if they had training as warriors, instead of this nascent desperation yet to see the true unpredictability that renders unlearned fighters dangerous. They've yet to determine the depth of the cost of what they do here, or what they fight against.

He grimaces, nodding to Moran.

"To the centre. The largest pieces are likely to be there, not on an individual."

Thus he spins back around, elbowing one poor older man in the abdomen to send him wheezing to the ground, winded and unhurt, as he stepped forward, fluid in his flute-aided redirecting of blows meant to cripple and stall. It's not long before they're close to the centre, and the pieces visible in light-devouring shards, one big as their palms held together.

"How hard is the moon's anger riding you?!"