Been a long time since he worked with a team. In a team, he remembers, each member serves its own small purpose. His purpose is to protect the two hearts he feels beating behind him. One is about twelve feet up and a couple feet to his right, the other three feet off the ground, directly behind his legs. With every beat of them the vines curled around the remains of his face, the leaves sitting in the cavity of his chest, seem to beat, too, color shining a little more wetly on the petals of the rose growing there. The color overflows every now and then and splats down onto the toes of his boots.

Pale blue eyes peer around from about the vicinity of what was once his chin, picking out a target. The hand he raises to that target looks, from a distance, like it's wearing fingerless gloves - blood pumps sluggishly out from the place the flesh sits sagging around his knuckles. With that hand, he pulls. The ability the Legion gave to him seems the most appropriate way to save them, pull their power out from them and their energy out from them and from his other hand pour that stolen energy into the Faceless.

Perhaps Roland can steal a little, weaken whatever Legionnaire stands before him, before they find a way to break the concentration it takes for him to do this. Or perhaps he won't be quick enough. Or perhaps they'll want to talk, instead. If they seem distractable, hesitant in any way, the mouth set low in Roland's throat will open and he will speak to them, in whatever words come to him first.

"Stop this foolishness. You know as well as I do we both took an oath."