[ Dorian snorts, dismissive, and when he speaks, it's as if Merlin isn't there. Sorry bruh. ] "Only projectiles?" the boy asks, as if being beamed by a wayward chafing dish weren't a very real and present danger.

"No, my boy," replies the mage, with his roguish good looks and magnanimous patience, "not only projectiles."

[ To their right, an NPC with a club bears down on them crying some ridiculous battle cry and swinging his weapon with impunity. Blue light flares when his club slams against Dorian's barrier, and the man wastes a half-second looking puzzled. Dorian responds not with magic -- just good, old-fashioned physical violence, in the form of his staff slamming into the man's face, caving in his nose. ]

But you're right -- to the exit, please.