Still trembling from exhaustion, Dromaeus sheathed his sword. Reaching into his satchel, he drew a thick glass phial filled with a potion of vigorous healing. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and drained it, before hurling the phial onto the concrete. Renewed strength flooded into his muscles, and the pain in his battered limbs fled, replaced by warmth and energy. Dromaeus smiled (well, whatever the hell his best approximation of a smile would be)at the feeling and crouched, disappearing on the battlefield, switching to his bow as he went.