RP:Burglarizing Thieves

Part of the Home Sweet Home Arc

Synopsis: Gilwen, Eirik, Pilar and Aetherial meet to steal an elven artifact from Trist'oth's First House. With Aetherial disguised as the Matron Laezila, and Gilwen a bearded dwarf named Turk, the group play the part of bounty and bounty hunters in an attempt to infiltrate the D'Artes Estate. The plan works, and armed with crude flashbangs, and a beserker, the group manage to make it into the First House to locate and then steal an ancient diadem believed to help rid Sage of the curse plaguing it. Of course, the attempt is not without opposition, and the group is forced to fight their way out of Trist'oth and the Underdark, chased by drow and a drider made completely of fire. With Pilar, Aetherial and Gilwen considerably injured, it is because of Krice, a squad of elven soldiers led by Thaelorn, and Eirik that their enemy, who had followed them up into Craughmoyle, is slain.

Due to the corruption of the recovered artifact tainting a wound, Gilwen is now personally suffering from the same killing curse as her ancestral home.

In The Green Rose Inn

The Green Rose Inn, a typically boisterous and busy establishment in the lower part of Craughmoyle, was uncharacteristically quiet; no bawdy music, no drunken dwarves, not even the sounds of a healthy brawl escaped the establishment. The windows were boarded up, and the door guarded by two stocky dwarves equipped with impressive battle axes. Anyone not permitted to enter was shoved bodily away before the sentries shoved thick fingers at the 'closed for the day' sign that hung from the door. However, Eirik and Pilar would be allowed entry upon their arrival, assuming they presented the guards with an iron coin emblazoned with the sign of Aer'athrad- which had been tucked into the missive that had been sent out the day prior with the date, time and location of their meeting place. Inside the Inn, the tables had been rearranged to form a long rectangle in the center of the room, which bore hand drawn maps of the surrounding areas, the Black Forest, and the tunnels leading from Craughmoyle and Vailkrin to Trist'oth. There was also a collection of weaponry: boot-knives, daggers, swords, and bows with full quivers. Gilwen, and eight other elves, stood around the table, their attentions focused on the maps splayed out in front of them, discussing the plans she had laid for each of them. The usual employees of the inn had been paid off, and the whole place rented for their purpose alone.

Pilar entered the inn, after showing off the coin, and scanned the room and the elves within. She had worn the only clothes she had that were truly suitable for the job; a beige short-sleeved tunic, black pants and brown boots. On her hip was sheathed a slightly curved, foot-long enchanted dagger. Her hair was braided and fell to her mid-back. She was ready for action, even if her face didn't exactly ooze confidence. Shyly, she skirted the edge of the gathering, not wanting to interrupt their discussion.

Eirik pays little attention to the guards keeping people outside, nor to the sign which reads closed for the day. Instead, the Berserker brandishes the coin he had received in the missive Gilwen had sent. The northman, gives a slight nod and finds himself shifting through the doorway into the establishment. For lack of better words, Eirik is armed to the teeth. Dressed in his usual black and silver stitched leather jerkin. Armored sleeves worked their way up both arms, and weaved into a red cloak covered set of leather and steel plate pauldrons. Matching black woolen pants are tied to his frame via a plethora of leather straps and strands, whilst steel greaves start below the knees and extend to protect booted feet. A fire enchanted Longsword dangles from one hip, Brann Forbruker had broken recently in Kahrans attack on Cenril, while an ice enchanted tomahawk hangs from his other hip. The foreigner gives no words of his entrance, but gives a slight nod to Pilar, who is probably still wondering what the mans name was. This might turn out to be an interesting turn of events.

Gilwen looked up each time Pilar and Eirik entered, but offered little more than a nod before returning to her comrades and the elvish conversation they were having. Minutes later, seven of the eight members of her entourage gathered up the majority of weapons from the table, leaving behind only a dagger and two boot knives, and left the inn entirely. The other elf that had lingered was promptly introduced. "Eirik, Pilar, this is Aetherial. She'll be going with us." She then beckoned them over with a wave of her hand, waiting only long enough for them to approach, before going into detail the plans she had concocted. "We'll be entering through the Embassy. Eirik and Pilar, we will be playing the roles of bounty hunters. Aetherial," Gilwen paused to give the blonde elf at her side a grimace; she clearly wasn't pleased with this plan. But, before Gilwen could continue, the other elven woman began speaking. "Pilar, I've been told that you might know who Laezila is, and what she might look like. If my birds have told me correctly, then you could reproduce her image?"

Pilar 's blood would have drained from her face if she wasn't already dead. “E-Eirik?” Horrified eyes turned to the man who bore that name. “You're... YOU'RE Eirik?” She looked to Gilwen, horror turning to anger. “Do you know who you brought here? He's a vicious, brutal murderer and can't be trusted.” She spoke in Elvish, the Grancevalian dialect, but still understandably Elvish. She started shaking her head, disbelief and barely-contained fury etched onto her face. Aetherial was ignored, and Pilar continued, still in Elvish, “No, no, this isn't going to work. You picked the wrong man.”

Eirik steps up to the table once he is beckoned to join them, and nods to Aetherial. The other elves who had gathered up their weapons and left shop, are mildly noted. Probably another strike force. They may, or may not see them later. Either way, Eirik is more curious about this plan that Gilwen is going to present. Pilar, from what he could remember, loathed fighting. His mind flicks over the memories of their training day in Frostmaw. She, is perhaps far more gifted with magic, while the berserker is a brute. A useful one - but a brute no less. Eirik didn't need to understand elvish to know that Pilar had some issues with his Hanna murder. For lack of better words, Eirik is the perfect man to protect the group. Witches or not, a job was a job, and Pilar had to get over her opinion. Perhaps even off her high horse, though she is right to voice such concern. "If there's something wrong, its best to voice in it common, where we can all understand it." Eyes flick to Pilar deadest on direct eye contact. "Yes, I'm Eirik. Whatever you wish to call me. Even dog works." Perhaps that would set her straight. Pilar, has no clue what she is referring to about the trust issue. He -can- be trusted. Even with witches. Trusted to hunt them down and kill them. Truly the northman has completed so many good deeds. Funny how she seemed to focus on the one bad thing.

Gilwen and Aetherial blinked in unison as Pilar spoke, but it was the former who eventually address her concern. "I needed someone who was skilled enough for the job I need done," her words were spoken calmly, and in common, but she added belatedly in her elvish tongue, "And I trust him enough for this job." She waited a moment more, before nodding to Aetherial once again. "Pilar, this plan is contingent on whether or not you can make me appear to be Laezila to those around us. Specifically those within the D'Artes household." Gilwen interjected, and ran the conversation from there, hoping to avoid any further disagreements about who she bought for the job: "Laezila, last we heard, still had a considerable bounty on her head. Our sources said that she wasn't captured or turned over to the Drow yet, so we should be able to at least get into the D'Artes house." She paused to tap the maps laid out in front of them, attempting to direct attention there. "Like I said, we'll be entering through the Embassy. It's pretty much a straight shot down. This map of Trist'oth isn't exact, but it's close enough that we should be able to locate the house with little difficulty." She then shifted her attention to a second map, one which depicted the tunnels that led up to Vailkrin. "We have an alternative escape route mapped, in case we are separated, or we cannot resurface through the embassy. I have a group of men waiting in the caves there to help with extraction if it's needed." The group of elves that had left just moments ago were stationed nearby for the same purpose, to aid in case they were followed out. "Memorize those." Gilwen said with a final poke at the maps before moving toward the opposite end of the table where a small box sat. She pulled out four, three-inch long glass vials: inside was a mixture of silver and gray powders, and a smaller vial of a yellow tinted liquid. "If you've ever been down into Trist'oth, you know how dark it is. I would prefer to avoid as much bloodshed as possible, I don't want to provide the Drow with enough reason for retaliation. These," she held up one of the glass tubes, "will cause a bright flash of light once broken. It's not immediate. The materials take at least 30 seconds to combust, so use them with that in mind." She proceeded then to hand each person a vial before pocketing her own. "Note that we'll be blinded to, considering our eyes will have already adjusted to the darkness." She looked between Pilar and Eirik then as she buckled on the belt holding her sheathed dagger, and tucked her knives into her boots. "Any questions so far?"

Pilar glared at Eirik, too enraged to be cowed by the likes of him. “No, that would be an insult to dogs. Dogs are good and pure creatures. You're a monster and should be locked away.” She turned on Gilwen, who'd already launched into her explanation of what was to be done. Pilar wanted to slap her. How dare she act like everything was okay when it very clearly was not? The vampire had half a mind to leave the inn right that moment, and might have if this mission wasn't so important. She refused to take the offered vial, keeping her arms crossed. The fury had not left her face.

Eirik thought that Gilwen might have interpreted Pilars worries - he was wrong. He off-handedly dismisses Pilar and her obvious hatred for himself. A monster, Eirik thought. How fitting. "If that's what you choose to believe, so be it." You win some, you lose some and Eirik had lost in her minds eye. Truthfully, he defended both Macon and Josleen during an extremely his stress scenario where the kingdom was under assault by magic casters, witches. Burning effigies. Hanna, the one he killed, was pointed out as a witch. When she raised her hands in the kings direction, Eirik acted. Like a berserker, and eradicated the threat without second thought. Who knows what she was doing? He wouldn't take that chance. Both Macon and Josleen are safe. Hanna, acted in a way that was -far- to suspicious to be allowed to continue. The maps are inspected closely, taking care to note the entrances and exits. He continues to listen to the plan given and only nods in response. He does have a single question, "We are travelling as bounty hunters?" He states more than asks. "If we happened to be stopped for whatever reason, what is our 'target'." He thought to ask so that they may all be on the same page and able to spew forth whatever story has been handed to them. If the drow decided to get violent, Eirik would be ready to do his job - carrying a few tricks up his own sleeve just in case. The chemical flash bangs are noted, and they were right; it would cause issues with sight. Though his Lycan blood would help him recover at a quicker rate. A hand raises to idly scratch at his scruffy scar ridden features, Henry should be arriving soon. Another member of the Steel Collective whom Eirik ordered to meet with them just outside of the Inn. He would cause a fuss, but patiently wait until the mission either started and they left or Eirik summoned him in. "I have another who will be joining us for the mission. Names Henry, another shield brother from the steel collective. I'm going to assume that neither of you prefer things to be up close and personal, right?" Though a question is asked he only gives a moment of pause. "Henry and I will be your shield, if you prefer to cast, take full advantage of that. He is far stealthier than I, but his skill with spear, shield and sword nearly rival my own." He gives a glance to Aetherial and Gilwen, wondering if Pilar would get over the issue at hand and begin to work with everyone. "If an escape is imminent and we are under attack, I can and will, cause a scene somewhere else to get the drow or whatever lurks down there, off our backs." He wouldn't go further into the details of such things, just merely note it.

Aetherial watched Pilar throughout Gilwen's explanation of the plans, and while Eirik spoke to Gilwen regarding his plus one, and who their target was, Aetherial took a moment to address Pilar in murmured elvish. "I can understand your hesitancy in working with someone you distrust. If the probability of success was high enough, and Gilwen cared little for the potential lives lost, we would just barge in and take what we need. But we can't, and we –need- you." Her features were held in an apologetic look, and Aetherial accepted the flash bang Pilar refused to take. "Aetherial, disguised as Laezila, will be out bounty. We'll be pretending to turn her over to the D'Artes house. Well, you, Pilar, and Henry then." Gilwen said in answer to Eirik before turning to glance over the table once more, ensuring she wasn't leaving anything important behind. "I can't waltz into Trist'oth as I look now, but we want to avoid putting any extra strain on Pilar's illusion casting." She picked up bottle then, filled with a blueish liquid that, when uncorked, smelt faintly of stale ale, body ordor, and earth. She wrinkled her nose and downed in forcefully. The urge to gag and expel her stomach contents thereafter was strong, but she managed to keep the polymorph potion down. "We have an hour to get in, and hopefully out again before this wears off." One of the dwarvish sentries outside was kind enough to share a few strands of his hair, and within minutes, Gilwen was no longer an elf, but a stout, dwarf with a heavy ginger beard and bald, but tattooed head. She wasn't much smaller than she typically was, losing merely three inches in the transition, but her muscle mass bulked considerably; thankfully she had prepared for this by wearing loose fitting gear. "The man's name is Turk, so you can call me that now," Gilwen said, her once light and lilted voice deep and gruff. Turning to Pilar then, Gilwen fixed her with an expression that could be considered faintly apologetic, or perhaps pained: it really was difficult to tell with half her face covered in hair. "Pilar, this plan's success counts on you. You can rage at me all you want once we're safe home, I won't stop you. But can we pretend, for as long as it takes to get out, that we are comrades who trust one another?"

Pilar sighed and looked away from the elves. “I said I'd help, so I'll help.” She glanced to Aetherial, then snapped her fingers, a wholly unnecessary action. The elf's visage melted away, replaced with that of Laezila. Pilar's anger was displaced briefly with sadness. “She was my friend, you know. Laezila... But I haven't seen or heard from her in so long, I can only suspect the worst. I hope that your information is right, and the D'Artes family didn't get her.” Pilar gazed into Aetherial's eyes, now Laezila's, and looked away. She was so tired of her friends disappearing.

Eirik gives another nod. Laezila, is the target. He makes a quick mental note of their surroundings and stifles his reaction to the concoction she had chosen to drink. Gilwen, is suddenly a cheeky looking, bearded dwarf and to be called Turk. Interesting. This plan might work. Though it did hinge on Pilar pulling through this. Eirik, without a doubt, would do his job should it be required. He is a back-up plan, there to help protect them on their mission. And he would act only if it was needed. Beyond that, he is ready to move out, the moment they were given word. "I'm ready when you are, Turk." Eirik, already voicing the new name of Gilwen to help her adjust to being called by such a thing. Once he spots Pilars ability with Illusion he gives her a nod. She is indeed quite skilled, regardless of what she thinks of him. He knew they would leave shortly, and that Henry waited just outside - just as ready as he was.

Gilwen, now Turk, offered Pilar a grin in response to her illusion casting. "Fantastic. Let's go." Aetherial, much more sympathetic and empathetic, touched Pilar's shoulder lightly after standing. "Thank you." Gilwen would lead all of them from the tavern, and into the Embassy from there.

Pilar managed a smile for Aetherial, then followed Gilwen to the Embassy. She would ignore Eirik as much as she could, today.

Eirik followed Turk out of the tavern and promptly snagged Henry, made sure to introduce him to the 'crew' he would be working with and fell back to walk beside him all the way to the embassy. Henry, from beneath his helmet spoke to Eirik in soft whispers. Muttering about how Brynna didn't want to let Henry come here alone. She had a distaste for his job at the commanders' side; all those tough missions that Henry worked alongside him. Now that she harbored feelings for Eiriks second, she often fought with him over missions. As they continue to march their interaction is stifled, and Henry checks his weapons, shield and armor. Everything he needed is there.

At The Drow Embassy

Gilwen led the misfit group down Embassy row, and noted the positions of not only her troop, two of which hung outside the Elven Embassy, and speaking in conversational tones (the rest lingered inside), but also Krice, who had agreed to offer aid in extraction should they return this route. The dwarf-turned elf, nodded at the silver headed warrior, and tugged on her braided, ginger beard in passing, before strolling casually into the Embassy, and winked casually at the Emissary. "Gotta gift fer D'Artes," she said in her gruff, baritoned voice. The original Turk had informed her it was easy to enter the tunnels from the Embassy, so long as they made it appear that they were meant to be there. Don't act suspicious if you don't want attention. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at Aetherial, who was currently disguised as Laezila and bound in ankle and hand cuffs to complete the guise of a bounty ready to be turned over; the restraints were an added touch Aetherial snapped into place just before leaving the inn. The Emissary looked mildly interested at the fake Laezila, but offered no further signs of acknowledgement. "Well then, let's get this over with," Gilwen-Turk said, moving toward the door leading to the entrance of the tunnels.

Pilar was by Laetherial's side, her hand on the “captive's” arm. She offered a nod to Krice as well as they passed by. She wished he was coming instead of Eirik, but it couldn't be helped. She tried to look mean and tough, like a bounty hunter, but instead looked constipated. She didn't do “mean and tough.”

Eirik and Henry would bring up the rear, no doubt fitting the concept of bounty hunters as well; neither habitually bore the markings of any kingdom in Lithrydel. Both men are also rather rough looking - mercenaries. Although Pilar might look constipated, both men bringing up the rear were battle hardened veterans and certainly looked the part, without even trying. Who would have thought that such a guise would work out so well here? As Turk discusses the ongoing of their troop and their captive Laezila, he does and says nothing to act suspect. Instead, he and Henry keep to the guise of their jobs. Prisoner transport, and they both, stand ready to push Laezila forward to follow Turk. Once Laezila and Turk move, they follow in turn without any delay. Stick to the job.

In The Tunnels

"Laezila, yer gonna wanna take those cuffs off." Gilwen said, her words naturally accented by the potion she consumed, feeling the pitched degree of the descending slope through her feet; already they were immersed in darkness, unable to see even six inches in front of them. "Our vision isn't going to get much better, so tread carefully and keep your ears open. Here be dragons." The sloped tunnel would present precarious situations, both Aetherial and Gilwen sliding a few feet down due to misplaced footing, and small crevices in the walls offered hiding holes for creatures of the dark to ambush them from. Eventually, the group would make it down the slope, thankfully with little incident, before being forced to trudge up the next slope; this one wasn't nearly as steep as the one they descended however, so Aetherial slowed long enough to replace the cuffs once more. "It's just a ways farther now." The fake Laezila murmured, hoping each person of their group was close enough to hear, "Roughly a hundred yards or so more, and we'll make a right. From there, stick close to Turk. He'll get us to the house."

Pilar 's vampire sight came in real handy here. “Rock ahead, Laezila. Turk, there's a hole to your left.” She scanned the tunnels for anyone or anything that would threaten the mission. “Tread lightly, everyone,” she said, though there was no immediately apparent reason why. She just had a gut feeling.

Eirik finds himself following behind Henry at this exact point in time, truly the last in line, though still close enough to be informed of words being spoken. It's the underdark, and true to its name its void of light. What else was to be expected, though both warriors find little difficulty in following the path, they stand ready to bring death to anything which might jump out at them. They were sure that this is where their paycheck would be earned. "Understood," Eiriks voice is low and gruff, nearly a whisper for the group around. As for Pilars words, Henry found himself grateful for them, his lowlight vision is something that would not have caught the rock and pothole. He dodges both and continues to follow their lead. Giving the illusionist a silent thank you. Eirik, is using the call of the wolf to further his own sensing, edging himself upon transformation. The realm of madness and the sane. It’s a skill, that his class has mastered in every facet. Ears twitch, listening in on their surroundings. The Northman refused to let anything sneak up on him, if he could help it. Though transform, Eirik does not do. He is still in humanoid form.

As if to lull them into a false sense of security, nothing living in the tunnels move to attack the group. Gilwen was almost led to believe that perhaps they'd manage to abscond with the artifact with little resistance as well. As they approached the wall of the tunnel that forced them left or right, followed the directions previously mentioned by Aetherial. They went right. However, in this darkness, Gilwen had no hope of locating the house from their current position, so she reached into the satchel that hung at her waist, and pulled out a vegetation bulb, which, given the size of her hands, was much harder to do than she expected. Crouching down, her free hand roved over the rocky ground before finding a crevice to thrust the seed into. Withdrawing one of the knives tucked into her boots, she sliced through the meat of her left palm and allowed the blood that welled in her hand to water the bulb. Within seconds, it rooted and spread out, illuminated briefly by a dim phosphorus green light, resembling the glow of the mushrooms that had sat in a bowl in the Embassy. The light source was brief, and hidden, but even the faint glow of that would be considered bright in the current circumstances. "We have a few minutes before it dies," Gilwen muttered, rubbing at her eyes with her uninjured hand as she stood. While it no longer glowed, or emitted any source of light now, it's lifeforce alone called to the druid, and it would lead them directly to the doorstep of the D'Artes. "Eirik, you and Henry haggle prices. Buy us me and Pilar time." Gilwen hadn't expected Pilar to be able to see in this darkness, but was pleasantly surprised by it nonetheless; it meant they were presented one less obstacle. "Pilar, we'll be looking for a crown," by we, Gilwen meant Pilar would be looking of course, "It should be on display." She couldn't imagine Tiphareth hiding away such an important elvish artifact; surely, he would have it on display merely to boast of its acquisition. "It looks as if it were made up of vines, leaves... general forest foliage. It's metal though. Silver, I think. Once it's found," she was talking to the group as a whole now, "I'll break the vial. Remember, thirty seconds before it ignites. Try to protect your eyes. After ignition, make a run for it. Try to get back to the Embassy." She paused, fixed her attention to the ground where the vegetation pulsed with a borrowed life, and nodded. "Let's go."

Pilar moved to Gilwen's side, frowning. “Your hand...” Oh, if only she'd brought her medical supplies. She listened to Gilwen's instructions, nodding along. “Got it.”

Eirik put his hand on Henry's shoulder, allowing his second to take note of his current position. It looked as though they would take Laezila into the house to haggle upon the price. Doing their best to keep them all distracted. The Northman wanted to laugh. Negotiations. If that's what they needed, so be it. The Lycan takes a step forward to walk beside Henry, frigid eyes noting the seconds current state. They relished in this feeling. The two of them embraced the calm before the storm. Their time would soon come, and all would see the skill of the Collective! A nod is given to Henry, and they both confirm their willingness to stick with her plan. Eirik did not understand enough about magic or healing for that matter, to comprehend the spell Turk had cast or grant his help with her wound. Eirik, then takes position behind Laezila, with Henry, and marches towards the household that they are to be bartering over the head of this Laezila impostor. Little did the drow know, she is a fake. Hopefully this would work out to their advantage. If not, they knew what to do.

At The D'Artes Estate

The party continued to follow the path of the dying vegetation underfoot, and eventually found themselves before the D'Artes' estate. This is where this were going to get a little dicey. Gilwen-Turk deviated from the group to address the sentinels standing guard, their placement stated by the final pulse of life emitted by her plant before it shriveled and died. "We gotta gift fer D'Artes," Gilwen stated, jerking her thumb yet again at the fake Laezila just as she had when addressing the Emissary. "The Matron Laezila." The sentinels glanced between themselves and then over to the fake drow-turned-vampire, before one moved for the door to announce to whoever was at home and in charge. Minutes ticked by before the guard returned, and announced that they could continue. From there, they would be ushered into the lofty cavern and greeted by member of the house hold high enough in the hierarchy to handle such matters in the place of Gevurah. The drowess was willowy, her figure discernible by the pulsating faery fire that limned the decorative gargoyles. So, her first flash bang would be used for distraction, because although blinding as it may be, it wouldn't likely render the sentries lining the walls useless for long. "You claim to bring us Laezila of House D'l'Sel D'issan," the priestess spoke, her expression bored and distrusting. "Let us see her then." Gilwen-Turk reached for the fake Laezila at that point to drag her forward and present her to their hostess. Aetherial, having met Laezila only once before, it a remarkable job of imitating the fear the little drow had once expressed while in the care of the elves; her eyes were wide and rolling, taking in every ounce of the cavern, and her fangs bared out of subconscious threat for self-preservation. While the priestess took her time inspecting the impostor, Gilwen's eyes scanned the room for signs of the artifact. Despite the faery-fires, it was still dark enough that Gilwen still found it troublesome to see properly.

Pilar hated seeing Laezila so scared, even if it wasn't truly Laezila. She feared Aetherial's fate if they tried to take her away to the dungeon, or worse, executed her right there. She glanced around the room, her vampire sight cutting through the darkness easily. There were a number of artifacts on display here, many of which were decidedly not drow in origin. Trophies, most definitely. Pilars eyes went from one to another, searching for the crown. At last, they came to rest on a glass case that carried three artifacts, one of which looked very much like the crown Gilwen had described. Pilar dipped her head in that direction and coughed a couple times. She hoped Gilwen would pick up on her hint.

Eirik stands as a stone-faced sentinel; harboring no emotion upon his scarred and scruffy visage. Whilst some might be perturbed by the wait the Drow forced upon them, both Eirik and Henry are unflinching. They stuck to their roles well. Neither giving any reason to think they are false. When they are finally admitted entrance, they both follow behind Laezila giving credence to the 'task' of selling their captive. When Turk moves to pull their prisoner forward, the Lycan presses a hand against her back, to push her forward for all to see - in essence, aiding Turks dragging, and helping the façade of her being a prisoner. It wouldn't be enough to knock her over, though it is a check mark on the deception. Henry marches to take up position next to Eirik, whilst taking in the sights of the house through his peripherals. "Here she is," Eiriks voice is confident and grainy like rocks being crushed beneath a weighted boot. It's low and riddled in a thick foreign accent the Drow will find unfamiliar. His homeland is not something known by others. Even by those long lived and well-traveled. Before anything else is to be discussed or even any further actions taken, he gives voice to what they have all come here for. "There is a matter of her bounty." Obviously, he is single-handedly opening the discussion of her sale. Frigid silver eyes flick to their captive, who convincingly plays her own role. He knew not to discuss too much, preferring to play things out. After all, he is the one who needs to barter, not the others. They had their own task to perform whilst here under their perceived ruse. He pays no mind to Pilars subtle signals and continues to brazenly keep his mind on the task. Even if this person is a fake, he would not allow them to take her. That -is- why he was hired, but he displays none of this upon his features. Eirik is the muscle, they were the brains.

The Priestess continued to inspect their captive, and slowly her lips twitched into something resembling a grimace. "Hm. Yes, the bounty." The initial amount had been a substantial reward for the capture of Laezila, and while she was still a wanted woman, the Priestess's expression reflected a disdain for talking payment. "Unfortunately, the First Daughter is not home at the moment. It would be her whom you'd do business. We would gladly keep her, and payment could be sent at a later date." The drowess would be content to not pay a dime for Laezila, and she silently enjoyed the thought of presenting the First Daughter with her prey on her own- essentially stealing the bounty from the group. Gilwen, meanwhile, strolled around as casually as possible, sticking to the open expanse of room to avoid colliding with someone or something. It wasn't until Pilar's cough that she dared venture closer to the trophy case. The sentinels along the wall where the elven artifacts sat drew nearer, as if expecting their theft. "Relax, I'm just lookin'. Er, tryin' to look. It's bloody dark in here." A rumbling, good natured chuckle was forcefully expelled, but her words and laughter did nothing to dissuade the guards. She sucked her teeth loudly before whistling her appreciation, "Gotta trifecta there, don't ya?" She asked, poking a meaty finger at the glass case. "Wonder what that lot would sell for." At that time, the fake Laezila, Aetherial, dropped one of the fragile vials, drawing the attention of the drow back toward the prisoner at the sound of breaking glass. "What was that?" The Priestess asked, her attention drawn to the ground were the mixture sat, currently benign. Aetherial glanced down at it as well, maintaining that frightened façade, counting all the while. One. Two. "I-I-I..." She forcefully stammered, taking a step back in that moment. Five. Six. The Priestess stooped to touch the chemical mixture, her fingertips coming away speckled with silver and gray powder, and glistening softly with the liquid that had mixed with the compounds. "What is this?" She hissed, jerking her attention from the imposter Laezila, to Henry and Eirik, and then Pilar and Turk. "N-n-nothing. It's n-nothing," the stammered answer was squeaked out, as merely a means of buying a few more seconds. Twenty. Twenty-One. Without warning, Aetherial threw her head forward, her forehead bashing against the nose of the drowess before her, the sound of it breaking a wet crunch as blood began pouring down the woman's face. In tandem, Gilwen unsheathed her dagger and shattered the glass casing that protected the artifacts therein in one swift motion. With her right wielding her dagger, the left snatched the diadem, not giving the swords therein a second glance; they were important artifacts that had been previously thought lost, but they meant nothing at this time. And then, the room was thrown into a brief but blinding light.

Pilar began to count as well, the second the vial dropped. She shrugged as the drow demanded answers. Then Aetherial and Gilwen were acting, the drow's nose broken, the crown snatched. Pilar closed her eyes just as the flash went off. She opened them again once the light had faded, and knew she had to act fast. The guards had all drawn their swords, and while some were hesitant to swing blindly, others weren't. To Henry and Eirik, she called, “Behind you!” as she went to Aetherial's side and released her from her chains. Another guard elsewhere managed to slice through one of the fairy-fire braziers on the wall, spilling the flaming coals across the floor. The rug they were standing on began to catch, and Pilar began to curse in her native tongue.

Eirik stood unyielding in presence, a veritable mountain of trained flesh. A warrior, honed through years of slavery in the arena of the witch Illisaria. He fought legions of Saurian threats side by side with Lionel. Took place in the assault on a bug hive in Kelay, fending off hundreds, if not thousands of massive insects alongside his guild companions. He did it again in Gualon facing worms the size of dragons. Again, battle had found him in Rynvale, where the Lycan fought to save dozens of citizens without pay. They were all swarmed and yet here he stood, among the drow; -far too collected-. Is he arrogant enough to believe that such a task force presents no threat? That can't be it can it? It is. He stood face to face with Kahran when he attacked Cenril and did not cave. When that vial is tossed, his mental math begins. The final countdown. "That?" a hand idly points at the ground - it’s a ruse to get them all to look and just before the flash ignites, Eirik bellows "Henry!" They both shield their eyes from the concussion of illumination. The Lycan steps forward while simultaneously pulling free his longsword. The draw is a sudden attack, hacking the drowess leg right off - sending a wave of blood to splatter upon the ground nearby. In his mind, a bloodied nose is not enough of a mark! Henry twists to catch an assault Pilar screams about, shield clanking and vibrating in defiance of the weapon which batters against it! He ducks low, huddled beneath his shield and spears the guard right through the groin. Already the Berserker has turned, charging into the fray! Now, his ice-enchanted tomahawk is yanked free. The commander is suddenly a whirling dervish of death, severing everything he can from each guard that comes near the group. Henry, has formed a wall of sorts, stepping with his commander into the fray, sword brazenly keeping pace with Eirik. They worked in unison, defending one attack for the other. Slaying one nearby and unseen. "Make a run for it!!" He knew they couldn't keep up this pace forever, but he had to cause enough of a scene to distract the guards. Surely, he would become a prime target! Once the fire spilled forth, Henry took action, grabbing a rather fragile gourd filled with oil and tosses it at the ground near the entrance. Either the fires would catch it in minutes, or Eirik would ignite it on their way out. A wall of flames to spill forth as a distraction whilst the group makes a run for it!

Gilwen released a hiss of pain as she rubbed at her blinded eyes, balking long enough in her retreat from the display case to receive a hardened boot to her rib cage. Her mouth worked like a fish, gasping for air after it had been so violently expelled from her, and she struggled to find purchase against the floor to push herself away from another attack. The burst of light had lasted mere seconds, but the effects lasted much longer; amidst the groans of discomfort, and hissed orders in the drowish language, the piercing scream of the priestess, whose leg had been severed at the knee, reverberated through the cavernous room just as the carpeting caught fire. But, this was the house of D'Artes; surely they hadn't expected an easy retreat? The drow sentries, realizing the strength and battle prowess of Henry and Eirik, drew back, choosing to lift their shields and magical enchantments to block the onslaught of attacks, rather than risk being cut down while they still fought to regain their vision. Aetherial, as her shackles were removed, threw up a dense, protective barrier that enveloped those near-by from the magical defenses that had been triggered in the scuffle; Gilwen had not made it close enough to receive such shielding. The fire that had broke out from not only the tipped brazier, but also the crude flash bang, and then made worse by the oil thrown to create a barrier, twisted into itself and grew smaller, as if it were dying out already. A second later, and it roared to life, taking the shape of a massive drider; nothing around the creature burned, but heat rolled off of it in blistering waves. Despite the large spots that still danced in her vision, Gilwen struggled to gather her legs under her, which were currently in the process of shifting back into their true form- as was the rest of her. Dagger in one hand, diadem in the other, she scrabbled across the ground, her twisting legs making her progression incredibly hard. The silhouette of the drider lashed out at the group with two of its legs, causing the otherwise invisible shield of magic to ripple with faint greens and blues; the magically born creature seemed content to focus its attention on the group, while Gilwen finally managed to reach the door, no longer in the guise of Turk. "Out! Fall back!" The elf shouted over the roar of the fire and the shout of drow who were more than willing to cut every one of them down.

Pilar winced and looked away as the drow's leg was lopped off. She'd known it could get messy, hell, she'd seen messier in her day, but she hated violence. She looked to Gilwen and rushed from the shield to aid the elf, tackling a drow guard who had vision enough to see her. They tumbled to the ground and Pilar punched him once in the face, knocking him out immediately. She may have hated violence, but she would use it to defend someone if necessary. Another guard came at her, and she ducked beneath his sword and kicked his legs out from under him. She made a dash for the door, where Gilwen was, her eyes darting to her comrades. The drider was keeping them pinned down, the massive flaming creature unwilling to let them pass. Pilar held out her right arm, and her illusions took effect again, rendering her comrades invisible. “Run, run, it can't see you!” she yelled. Invisibility was harder to do than a disguise, especially from a distance.

Eirik does not stop moving - nay, he cannot, and body continues to jerk into action, giving zero moments of hesitation. For instilled into his very beating heart is battle. Blood. Gore. Carnage and mayhem. This is his playground and the drow would soon see much more. Where most would fail and falter at the sight of a fiery creature spilling forth from the terror of fire the berserker had created, he reacts. Henry deflects another blow, that would have otherwise skewered Eirik, deflected off to his side and narrowly missing him. It was interesting, however to watch the guards fall back. Throwing up their shields to protect themselves! The berserker had every intent to leap at the creature that assaults the protective shield on the group, but realizes that it cannot harm them. This team is turning out to be something far more than he expected! Pilars command has both men springing into action! Eiriks axe is hurled at the oil, producing a counter effect - freezing the fluids in an instant, and killing what the flames might think to further use as fuel. Both Henry and Eirik use this moment to make a mad dash for the door, ensuring that they are the last through it; Effortlessly taking advantage of the ice - sliding on their sides for a hasty retreat! Eirik snags his weapon and twists to close the door behind them, whilst Henry skewers a doorman. "Grab something to bar the door!" The Northman, flexes those Lycan muscles, bracing himself for the coming push against it. It's only moments before a body, two spears wedged, and random objects are thrown to block the door. The ice surely gave them some time whilst they performed this act! (The drow could have a nice game of slip 'n slide) The small things, no matter how insignificant, could easily add up to make their lives much easier to keep! Eirik looks to Pilar, "Thank you," even if she hated him, her ability and skills are thanked. The duo continues to make a dash for their exit strategy. Scanning everything they can to attempt at discerning more foes!

The group would manage to make it out of the estate in one piece, but as soon as movements were made to bar the door to keep the drow and fiery drider contained within, a folly of arrows from the group of guards they had met upon their arrival rained down on them; because while the invisibility charm managed to hide them from the drider, it couldn't hide the heat signatures of their body. The barrier that had been erected around them was meant only to block magical attacks it seemed, because Aetherial's body jerked and she released a surprised gasp of pain when one of the arrows seated itself into her left shoulder, slicing through flesh and muscle before sticking into her scapula. Meanwhile, the fire comprising the drider, licked out around the edges of the door, crawling up the cavernous walls and poured from the keyholes as instead of flame, it were water. Realizing that they had mere minutes before the ensorcelled fire was on them once again, Gilwen used what little light she had offered to her, and the thin, vine-like foliage she always wore wrapped around her right arm shook with life and magic, before unfurling from their sleep. Rooted at her wrist, the strands of vegetation were curled into Gilwen's fist and used then as a whip to lash out at the sentries who had been stationed outside. "We need to go," Aetherial panted through her pain, watching as the escaping fire lashed out toward Pilar, as if able to detect her solely based on the magic she exuded. With no actual substance, it wouldn't be able to hold the vampire there, but the flames were hot enough to melt flesh with just a second of contact.

Pilar 's scream was terrible to hear. The fire scorched her upper right arm and part of her shoulder, and while she leaped away in time to keep the flesh on her bones, the wounds were severe. Her tunic had caught aflame, and she ripped the sleeve from her arm and tossed it away, burning her left hand's fingers in the process. If she wasn't a vampire, she might have gone into shock. As it stood, she was disoriented from the excruciating pain, stumbling in the vague direction of Gilwen. Her concentration broken, her spell had worn off and left them all visible once again.

Eirik and Henry however, are caught off-guard by the volley of arrows. They were too concerned with the door. Henry manages to bring his shield up in-time, but Eirik is defenseless. An arrow pegs him directly into the thigh. Its regarded with a grunt as he begins to find himself dancing on the edge. Adrenaline coursing through his veins. Anger, a veritable wall of inward chaos, becoming a shield inside his mind. It's a fire within his body, coursing through his veins, giving him the strength to press onwards. Those limits most found themselves difficult to surpass, are violently shoved aside when he begins to berserk. Yes, he loses basic functions of thought and the ability to command - narrow-mindedly pushing himself to continue the slaughter. To send more waves of red out in every direction as he passes. Henry on the other hand, is not like Eirik and can feel exhaustion from battle creeping into his muscles. Whilst they continue to move, he pulls free a vial of fluids, concocted by the berserker himself. It’s a drug, which will soon reinvigorate his human flesh. To help him press onwards. He often feared becoming addicted to the rage that it produced within himself. However, he would do whatever it was to stay the course. The arrow inside his thigh is snatched and yanked without regard for his own personal well-being! This man is insane! The fire lashing out from the other side of the door is ignored whilst he continues to move! "Get yer asses moving!" Henry's kind words of the day continue to attempt at pushing the group forward! Pilar is regarded, and so is Aetherial, with a nod, absent-mindedly checking on their physical health. Luckily the fire seemed to reach out for the Illusionist and not them. The only thing they could do at the moment was rush off into the fray. Eirik and Henry continue, and before the next attack can come, Henry ducks low, and holds his shield just above his shoulder. The Lycan uses it as a spring board, leaping straight into the archers who sought to kill them from far. Now they had a different issue all together. The berserker begins to cut a path through the party, for everyone to follow. Fighting back any form of pain his stinging leg might cause. The second is soon to follow. Neither of them intended to kill them all, only get the group through if they were quick enough to rush!

Gilwen heard Pilar's scream of pain, and turned in time to watch her snatch the arm of her tunic off and toss it aside, still burning. "Come on," she urged her now two injured comrades forward, taking advantage of the berserking lycan and the swatch he cut for their escape. No sooner had they moved from the door had it burst open, and the fire that sought to escape composed itself once more into its drider form and gave chase. "Run!" Gilwen shouted, a twinge of fear creeping into her command; with the ensorcelled flame came the sentries who had simply guarded themselves from Eirik and Henry's onslaught, brandishing swords and whips and threatening unholy magics. Gilwen shoved the crown into Aetherial's hands before pushing her bodily away. The blonde elf needed no further incentive to flee, and she sprinted toward the tunnel that would lead up to the Embassy. Before Gilwen could follow however, a leather cord snapped 'round her neck and jerked her backwards and off her feet. The immediate fear that came with the sudden vacancy of oxygen had her head swimming, but she managed to slice upward and through the leather cord, severing it completely, just before a well placed strike of sword sliced through her trapezius muscle and breaking through her collar bone. Blood spurted from the vicious wound, but she stumbled back, racing after Aetherial before the exhaustion, pain, and blood loss overcame her. Eirik and Henry (and Pilar, if she hadn't moved after either Aetherial and Gilwen) were soon flanked by the approaching drider and D'Artes guards that had poured from the house and onto the streets of Trist'oth. They were attacked with weapons forged of magic and metal, and if they didn't move to escape soon, they'd be overrun and likely captured.

Pilar knew only pain and fear, and this drove her to run, run as fast as she could. Once things had settled, if she survived and remained free, she would have felt shame at how she'd fled instead of helping Gilwen. Her vampiric speed kept her well ahead of the group, and she would be the first to reach the embassy, unless their path was blocked.

Eirik is a flurry of blows; a berserker dancing in his element. The spike on the back end of his tomahawk is used, spearing into the Achilles heel of one archer, and then yanked backwards sending the man careening to the hard, cavernous ground. His long sword takes the arm of another archer nearby; henceforth removing his ability to ever launch an arrow again. Henry's own scimitar like blade scythes through a single bow, rendering it useless as well. He follows up on another, using the broad side of his shield to bash the drows facial features. If time could slow, these two were causing mass panic and mayhem. Drow cheeks flailing at the battering ram of a shield - teeth launching forth from the scouts' mouth. That severed arm, seemingly absent of gravity for a moment, flips uncontrollably through the air. The other drow toppling over in a crazed assault by Eiriks tomahawk. The Steel Collective members were in their element! Blood still dripped from the Lycans wounded leg, though he is emblazoned by his sheer force of will. Henry, can start to feel the beginnings of his potion. Every movement of the duo brought forth well practiced carnage; rehearsed barbarism. As all bodies, limbs and teeth hit the ground, the two sprint further. Their allies cry for escape rings perfectly into their ears. Eirik led the way, and would seemingly bulldoze his way through scouts; sending any in his way flying off to the side. Henry kept pace as well, though he turns to see the commotion. The drider was after them all! In this moment, Henry fails to take notice of another scout, who lunges at him with a bloodthirsty knife! He does what he can to stave off the damage, but unfortunately his defenses are not enough. The blade sinks into his shoulder, causing an agonizing numbness to take over his shield hand. The protective piece of wood is dropped and he gives a cry of pain. His scimitar is thrust viciously into the drows side and he rids himself of the underdark creature. Henry leaves the blade within his shoulder and continues to run - thanking whatever gods that be he had chosen to drink that vial of fluid. Eirik and Henry would not abandon the group and would do everything they could to ensure they all made it back to the embassy. Eirik in particular is quite fast, but Pilar easily overtakes him. He is still, after-all, knocking drow out of the way in their running assault to escape. Henry however, finds himself near Gilwen by now, protecting her from an arrow that has been lobbed at them; taking such the thing to his already ruined shoulder. He was body blocking the best that he could.

Back to the Embassy

Gilwen would have noticed her vision growing fuzzy were it not for the pitch dark they found themselves in once again as she and Aetherial scrambled up the steep slope that led back into the Embassy. Bursting first through the doors that led into the tunnel, and then out the front doors soon following, the Emassiary had barely little time to react to the sudden appearance of two, blood drenched elves. Outside the Embassy, Thaelorn, captain of the guard, waited for some sign of the two elvish women, and once they escaped the establishment, stopping only because of the sudden collapse of Gilwen. The fiery headed elf's knees buckled finally, and she pitched head long onto the cobbled road of Embassy Row, her battered and bloodied body reaching its limit. Aetherial, who's left shoulder remained pierced by the deeply bedded arrow, thrust the diadem she held into the hands of a nondescript elf, who shot off into Craughmoyle, likely to return the artifact to the fort. Knowing they were not yet safe, Aetherial moved to pull Gilwen alone, trying to force her back onto her feet, to get her moving closer toward safety. There was nothing left either could do.

Pilar stumbled out into the street of Craughmoyle, her head starting to clear, just enough to realize what the hell was going on. She looked to Gilwen and Aetherial, then walked over. Her right arm hung useless by her side, but she grabbed Gilwen with her left hand by the back of her shirt and hauled her to her feet. Clumsily, she let the elf lean on her while she maneuvered her left arm around Gilwen's body. Thank the gods for vampire strength. Pilar looked to Aetherial. “Heal. Blood. Drink. Later?” She wasn't quite coherent enough for complete sentences yet, it seemed.

Eirik has done all that he could, save for perhaps a few things. Henry, is nearly useless, though still brimming with the pride of being cannon fodder. Though in the commanders' mind, Henry is far from that. Eirik, finally turns to give word to Henry. "Press on boy." Eirik moves, bloodied thigh, stinging muscles and aching mind. Though as strong as this Lycan may be, he is not an everlasting creature and by now, even he is growing exhausted from the exhilaration of their previous fight. From the run; the wound in his thigh. The mad man grits his teeth, and presses onwards. He cannot stop now. Not when they were close to being home free. He stays nearby Gilwen, Pilar and Aetherial, both weapons still brandished in case those that hunt them decide to spill forth like a nightmare. Like a tidal wave meant to wash away the intruders, to drown them in their furry. Henry, does as commanded and takes his leave. Perhaps to find himself a healer?

Krice was waiting a few metres further away from the Captain of the Elvish Guard, for the time when Gilwen would return with her party from the Underdark. He and the other man made next to no conversation with one another, focused on the task at hand and well aware that their senses needed to be attuned to everything around them, not to small talk. The warrior could smell blood in the air already. Turning, he pitched his gaze toward the doors of the Embassy, his back to the Craugmoyle tunnels, and waited for the distant sounds of commotion to culminate in the arrival of Gilwen and her company. No time for greetings, he moved forward to take up the rear, standing between the elf, Pilar, and Eirik to guard them against any oncomers from within the Embassy. He was aware of the Drow lurking within, and knew it would be mere moments before those dark-skinned elf-failures realized what had happened. Briefly, Krice directed his focus to the departing elf with diadem in hand but soon those eyes were upon the door once more, other senses attuned to the group behind him. " Let's get moving," he quietly insisted, rooted in place to give them a chance to escape. Katana brandished in his right hand, the silver-haired enigma was prepared to defend them. His chin lowered and his stare on the door intensified, awaiting the outpouring of Drow-ire that likely built up within the Embassy post-elf-invasion.

Only a small group of drow, and the fiery drider gave chase from Trist'oth; they were just as blood crazed as Eirik, and lusted fiercely for the battle. These drow were ones were accustomed to the slightly brighter halls of Craughmoyle, so their vision wasn't impaired as they spilled from the Embassy doors and onto the streets, their weapons raised- both magic and iron alike. They didn't wait for their fire born companion before striking; the split evenly, focusing on the two men who stood in opposition of them. Three were focused on Krice, two striking out with a spiked whip, whose barbs were coated in a neurotoxin, and the final third focused on parring the silver haired man's attacks: they wanted to render them incapable of fight to return them to Trist'oth. The other three moved to follow the retreating figures of Aetherial, Pilar and Gilwen, allowing the drider to focus its attention on Eirik. Its spindly legs lashed out at Eirik, and it moved constantly, trying to herd him away from the group, trying to separate him entirely. Thaelorn, who witnessed the outpour of drow and magic pierced the air with a shrill whistle, and five more armored elves escaped from their own Embassy down the street. One would be in charge of seeing Gilwen, Aetherial, and Pilar (should she chose to go with them), safely off, while the others met their captain in battle. The clash of swords and battle cries echoed off the tunnels, and reverbrated through the air around them.

Pilar indeed chose to go with Gilwen and Aetherial. Trying to get home to Chartsend was not an option in her current state. So she followed the elves wherever they led, hoping one would tend her wound (or maybe let her drink from them, as feeding helped vampires heal).

Eirik is much like the new-comer Krice, and standing ready for anything. Still unyielding to the bitter end. It's now, that his mind starts to frolic with the wolf. His inner demon screaming to be released. It begs for the bonds of its chains to be shattered. To break the iron veil of human flesh and its filthy emotions. It's imagined maw, foaming and frothing from beyond the void of the darkest recesses of his mind. Howling in madness. These inner thoughts berate and belittle his human mind. They carry on like a dreadnaught, furiously crying out - tearing at what little sanity he has. But Eirik, has control, it must be allowed to run free and for now he battles his inner spirit. Just like he had predicted they came. The last trick he had comes spilling forth in a violent display. The ice-enchanted Tomahawk is launched at one of the scouts, aimed to maim and dismember another. Muscle-bound carnage rips forth from Eiriks frame - twisting and shaping him into a nightmarish creature of legend; A Lycan. He does not fear the Drider, and a reinvigorated freak flies with reckless abandon to meet the creature head on in his charge! Gaping maw brutally snapping at its face, whilst all claws wreak havoc upon its body. He doesn't stop and hits the ground yet again, savagely swiping claws at its legs. Like pulling limbs from a spider. Dance and dash all you want, but those limbs will be his! Every attack the drider struck becomes a tit for tat game. The berserking Lycan pushing through everything it throws at him. Though he is a force of his own, in a way, the Drider completed its task. Pulling the madman away a bit.

Krice flexed his fingers around the hilt of his katana, reassuring himself that his grip was true, and met the onslaught headfirst. He rushed at the drow as Gilwen and Pilar made their escape, veritably disappearing from sight on his third sprinted step. He didn't teleport, but his speed was such that it would have appeared so to human and mortal eyes alike. He emerged a breath later behind the whip-wielding drow pair with his katana blade coated in blood from a decisive slash to one dark warrior's throat. In the same swing, he curled the weapon around toward the second drow man with the intent of decapitating his head from his shoulders, through his nape to his throat, but a well-placed swing of that barb-wired whip caught the curved steel and deflected it from its true target. The warrior compensated quickly, however, by tugging the drow closer with a backward thrust of his captured weapon, followed up with the tight-knuckle punch of his left hand, square in the middle of the drow's ugly, evil face. The warrior had experience with these dark-skinned creature, which had initially been to his own detriment, but was now to theirs. As the second drow warrior reeled from the pain, Krice had to step backward in avoidance of the third, whose poisoned daggers were wielded and brandished with wild speed but calculated precision his way. A grunt loosed from the enigma's throat told of the subtle effort required for the maneuver, deep purple fluid transferred from a dagger's tip to the strands of hair moving in his wake. That was close. He stepped forward on his right foot and pushed off his trailing left to advance on the third drow whilst ducking under its next swing. These dark-skinned foes were shorter than the warrior, but not necessarily lacking in skill. Through a grimace, Krice forcibly - and literally - disarmed the remaining drow - attacking him, at any rate - with a quick, clean swipe of his katana through bicep and ligaments, diagonally separated through the elbow. With the drow attacker distracted by pain, the enigmatic swordsman rushed in for the final blow, grabbing at his foe's throat with only the bare fingers of his left hand and crushing, through another obvious grimace, the larynx hidden beneath the dark skin. Was the warrior carrying an injury? No time to recover, he huffed out a breath and moved ahead to join Eirik, his eyes scanning the lycan's wild behaviour and unpredictable actions. Berserkers were dangerous for their strength and mindless fury. He would have to be careful. Krice rounded up the rear of the fire-drider and drove that blood-covered katana through one of the legs below, flames glowing in the reflective steel before swirling around it and then dissipating. He moved in for a second swing through the body of the driver, but one of Eirik's attacks on the fire-beast forced Krice to evade, for his own sake, and he grunted at the nearness of the blow. Moving in behind Eirik and perpendicular to his attacks, the warrior sought a different path and continued to cut at the drider whilst blocking any of its attacks with that same weapon, each time dispeling some of the magical fire from existence.

Thaelorn threw a final glance toward the retreating figures of his elvin kin, and the vampire, to ensure they were indeed off for a safer place, before his attention fixed to the drow warriors that moved to stop the injured party's retreat. Though the elves where light on their feet and battle tested, they did not dispatch their enemy as quickly as Krice had, and though they sustained injuries, the only casualties suffered were on the drow's side. Eirik's attacks on against the drider-shaped flame did little to slow it, and likely the lycan was suffering far more grievous injuries than he dealt; while both warriors hacked at the creature of pure magic and no true substance, the elves watched, taking in the creature and gauging the best means of attack before moving to assist. While Eirik snapped at the front most legs of the creature, it's hindmost appendages stabbed out at Krice, the heat billowing from the fire enough to burn the skin- actually allowing it to touch would melt through armor and skin alike. While the majority of the elves remained at a loss for what to do, Thaelorn's magical prowess called to the earth, drawing from the street loose dirt; destroying the immediate area to rid themselves and Craughmoyle of this rampaging beast was an option, but not one Gilwen or the Order would be willing to forgive. Politics. While he hadn't managed to call enough of the earthen particles to smother the fire completely, he took a page from the warrior's book, and crafted his material into a pole arm which swished through the air, suspended by magic alone, to lop at parts of the fiery monster. Eventually, and with dedication, the magic that birthed their opponent would either run out, or the fire would diminish to the point that the spell no longer held a viable body. Without warning, the flames disappeared, and all was quiet. The calm lasted long enough for each left standing to begin to catch their breath, and then the air grew thick and heavy with the magic that lingered after the demise of their fiery foe. The lingering mana curled into itself so tightly that the air around it rippled ominously. Then, without warning, it exploded outward. The force was enough that the windows of the embassies nearby shattered, and those within blast range would be thrown from their feet and into nearby buildings.

Eirik is not scared of the flames licking at his body nor of any attack he sustains. Such is the curse of a berserking madman. They cared little for their own well being. The smell of burnt flesh, and strands of Lycan hair adding to the already filthy and grotesque scene of battle before them. If this beast had a heart, the Lycan sought to eat it. In fact, all its attacks seemed to do is further enrage the warrior. He couldn't think about how his blows were ineffective. Such thoughts could not even begin to skim the surface of his rampaging, instinctual mind! Though he is madness incarnate right now, the swordsman's plan to use Eiriks distracting and dominating presence is perfect! Though finally, in his desperate attempt to claim its life, it's over. He couldn't fathom how. He couldn't understand why? The beast drew long breaths and just when he turns to look at Krice, the explosion happens! He is magically tossed through the air, like a cut blade of grass in the wind. Slamming into the wall of a building before body crashes into the floor, forcing the air from his lungs. The wolf releases another howl, one of pain undoubtedly. For moments he clamors in agony, yipping at the attack he just took! Eventually he manages to muster the strength to stand upon his shaky legs, but for how long can he keep this going? How long can he expect the curse to press his body forward, beyond what's thought of as capable? He takes a step forward, pain laced even while in this form; even whilst his body smokes and smolders. He can't keep it up! He had given too much this day! Spent too much precious energy fighting off the drow to get here. He shifts yet again, his Lycan howling as he transforms bloodily into his human form. He stands breathing, chest rising and falling with every breath. He cannot escape the forlorn emptiness that his inner beast leaves him feeling without. Like a drug addict, he needs more. Literally salivating to experience the high of that rush. Though he presses onwards. To snatch his weapons. The shredded bits of clothing are entirely ignored. He is covered enough to not embarrass himself. Wounds which seemed seeping only moments ago, have partially closed in his transformation. Singed flesh, shredded in exchange for his mortal bondage. For better or worse they had survived, though Eirik would need a healer soon. Despite the current ongoing of the troop, he manages to limp away.

Krice not only had a drider-shaped fire beast to contend with, and a berserking lycan, but now there were magically levitated chunks of rock being tossed and conjured at the aforementioned creature of flames. For the most part those rocks didn't come near him, but he eventually had to evade, which was enough in poor timing that one of the drider's rear legs sliced across the muscle between his neck and right shoulder, singing that portion of his shirt and burning the skin beneath. He winced but kept his focus, pain pushed to the wayside in favour of maintaining the onslaught on the fire creature. When at last its flames dissipated altogether, the warrior lept back, avoiding any residual swings from the berserking Eirik, and glanced from the lycan to the Elven commander and then toward the retreating women. They were no longer in sight. Time to go. Something kept the enigma rooted in place, however, his attention on their surroundings sharp and unyielding. It was only seconds later that the magical explosion grew seemingly from nothing at all. Krice barely managed to angle his katana in front of him before the blast hit his location. The shockwave warped around him but he was still shoved back several paces, not hard enough to throw him against a building but certainly with enough force to drive him that far back. His injured shoulder hit the near wall of the closest structure and he winced again before falling to a knee, huffing out another breath meant to maintain his composure, and keep his focus high. How was he able to mitigate the magic that had attacked him? The explosion that sent shockwaves through him? With the main threat of that fire-beast extinguished, pun intended, Krice stood at last but wavered on his feet, mildly concussed by the drider's dying blow, to scan his surroundings. Eirik was once more in human form and the warrior staggered toward him, sheathing his sword on the way. He reached out to lace his right arm around the now-human's waist, under an arm, to assist him with the retreat. He would not insist, however, if Eirik dismissed that aide. Either way, he would be moving with haste, albeit compromised, to leave Craughmoyle and this battle scene behind. Maybe the elves would put up Eirik in their embassy to heal.

Thaelorn and company were thrown from their feet, though the force of explosion was nothing compared to what Eirik and Krice had experienced. The concussive sound had ruptured his eardrums, and blood trickled from his ear canals, but if that was the extent of his pain, he would consider himself a lucky man. Now, all that was left was to dispose of the bodies that littered the street and then rendezvous with the rest of their team. A another took charge in clean up detail, setting the bodies, and body pieces, ablaze with a simple spell that burned clean and hot, and rendered the gore nothing but ash moments later. There wasn't much to be down about the broken windows, but the pools of blood were magicked away as well. "The Order is indebted to you both," Thaelorn said, his words louder than necessary, but the poor man couldn't hear about the loud hum echoing through his head. "Medical care is being provided in a small hunting lodge to the northeast, in the highlands." Their Embassy was far too close to use comfortably as a triage center. Should Eirik require immediate medical attention, or even assistance in retreating from Craughmoyle, the elven troops were ready to lend aid where they could. Those not injured in the fray were dispatched to the Green Rose Inn to recover anything left behind.

Eirik is still awash with the bloodlust of battle; its raging after affects clung to the man like a glue that he couldn't peel from his skin. He could barely stand, truth be told and when Krice's offer of help comes to his aid - he accepts it. Without words. Giving the man, he had only met in passing a couple of times, a nod of appreciation. When the elf begins to speak or rather, yell. Eirik visibly cringes his facial features. "We are right here man. No need to yell." Although his wounds are grievous, he still manages to pull through with a smile. "What a day." He gives no further verbiage to fill the air and accepts the noting of medical attention at their camp. That is indeed where he intended to go. Silver eyes flick to Krice, "Thanks." He didn't know the man would be here, but is glad he was. Last time he saw him was in Cenril, helping to defend Kahrans assault. It would seem they worked around some of the same circles, though in different ways. Eirik, is not always an innocent.