"Aright, men, this won't be easy," he said to the group consisting ENTIRELY OF WOMEN. "'cuz witches have a tendency to cast spells. Remember, if I get turned into a newt... what the Hell is a newt, anyway? I always pictured it as a goat."
He looked at the group, all of which stared at him as if he was insane (odds are he was).
"Alright. BREAK!"
He leapt back and took a running leap into the middle of the camp, tackling a particularly rotund witch. He drew back his hand and delivered several jabs to the hag's face. She had no idea what was going on.
Stelon blinked, then looked over to Miraye, who shook her head in disdain. Farrago stared at the 'battle', then whispered something incomprehensible to her bear.
"YEAH! THIS IS FOR DOROTHY!"
Once his current target was thoroughly unconscious, he leapt to his feet and punched another witch, a right hook to the cheekbone. She went down like a sack of rocks. He turned, dropping his left shoulder to just barely dodge a fireball, and dropkicked the last remaining witch (Either it was a very small camp or it was late and all the other ones are asleep.)
"Aright. You gals are the fashion crew, scrounge a dress; way I see it, none of the circus tents these green porkers are wearing'll be Farrago's size." He delivered a boot to the barely-conscious dropkicked witch.