Formy: Verily, I prithee, be still Synoptikal. Lest you hasten your demise.

Syn: But how can you harm me o'er there? Thou is foolish to think you can claim thy hill from -

[A passing arrow comes from afar, piercing Syn's neck]

Syn: [Gasping] Gah... I hath been mortally wounded....I should have known, not to be distracted...

[Syn dies]

Formy: Thy paid hand served me well. As I distracted Syn with idle chatter, thy archer sealed Syn's fate. I claim thy hill!