Oscar-- and Not-Oscar-- had kept pace with the ancient uncle as best as he could. Even in Nephele-that-isn't, with it's own layers of horrors that the Remnants of his own world couldn't quite compare, the boy that Oscar had inhabited in the manner of a body-hopping wizard was quite like himself in many ways despite the plumage.

That is to say: hardly a physical fighter.

Swatting at the creatures with his staff, it was all that he could do to keep them at bay. Hanging in the wake of the elf whose plumage reminded of snow-capped mountain tops, where the reach of the creatures faltered, was the safest bet. However--

There was no following him when he approached the angel with a fury that was on par with a force of nature.

On instinct, Oscar-as-Sweetroll sought out cover and laid in wait... watching, listening. His role was in information, not in combat.

Something might still be gained from all of this.