Maketh sheaths her sword with a groan, rubbing her face. Perhaps it's psychosomatic, but she can still feel the echos of the demon's magic bounding around in her skull. Weaker, shadows of the true power, but somehow still there, and persistent in its nagging. "We don't have the firepower and you know it."

Her tone is tired, though firm. One of them has to be the voice of reason. Usually it's Henry. "We're going to do this systematically."