"Stay back," Alistair yells, and he might as easily be yelling to the monster as he is to Alayne. The darkspawn's sword rips through the sleeve of his sweatshirt, drawing forth a long line of blood. The darkspawn sword, unfortunately, is more sword than the wooden one in his hands, which is already splintering. If he doesn't finish this up fast, they're all as good as done for.

One lucky strike on the back of the darkspawn's genlock's head sends the creature toppling to the ground. Alistair drops his own sword and grabs its own. For a second, he clutches his bad arm with his good, hoping to temper the flow of blood. Armor usually made sure that he didn't bleed out. He'd be sore from a good blow in the morning, but full plate kept the blood from draining from him on a regular basis.

His eyes look past the direwolf, still fighting the ogre, towards Sandor, his brow heavy with sweat. The hurlock is on top of him now, snapping at his shoulder. Alistair races towards him, slashing at the creature's back in an attempt to force him into relinquishing his grasp on Sandor.

"Are you all right?" Alistair is used to fighting Darkspawn. And while judging from the look at him, Sandor's probably used to fighting something, Alistair somehow doubts that he's accustomed to fighting anything like the Darkspawn.