Wind rips a little bit of cloth from his weathered training suit, enough to make a wick to put in one of the oil flask, turning it into an improvised lamp, then, motioning the others to stay back, he focuses the essences of air in eyes and of earth and stone in his arms, hoping to be fast enough to see the bolts coming at him and strong enough to strike them before they could do harm. Once ready, he opens the door at once, and hurls the flask at the thugs with one hand, while he uses the other to shield himself from missiles.