Carlyssa had performed before rough crowds in shady places several times before, but as she stood here on a platform constructed of rickety tables and tavern chairs, she had to admit that the Drital Qu'ellar pub held a special place in her heart for being the most unpleasant, untidy, and unsettled establishment she'd ever set foot in. Her crowd - if you could call the unshaven bunch of drunk degenerates sitting on the layer of dried, stale beer that covered the common room's floor a crowd - mostly stared at her legs mindlessly with alcohol-numbed eyes. Ruffians that were still able to stand or had found a chair to hang down upon mostly whispered perverted jokes into each other's ears and roared with silent laughter.

She found it quite miraclous that the people gathered here - a random mixture of pickpockets, scammers, and plain murderers - had been able to bring up the respect to not interrupt her performance every second. Maybe they actually thought it was nice. Her violet eyes scanned around again while she weaved over the improvisory stage, still melodiously recounting of the racy troubles of Dear Sweet Sally and her skirt too short. No, maybe they thought she was nice. Her acting talent shielded a shudder from becoming all too audible through her singing. Although she very much enjoyed the physical aspect of human passion, she was certain that any such act with one of the bandits gathered here would be more pain than pleasure, considering their nature. And from the looks of it, most of them at the very least had lice.

The applause accompanying the final few notes of her song came as an unexpected climax, and almost instinctively, she bowed in gratitude, inciting laviscious remarks concerning her rounder sides from the men sitting left and right of the stage. She smiled at them as she rose and placed her crimson-colored hat with a great, white feather atop her head with a graceful sweep. There was no time or space for indignation and anger here. Here, where anyone would gladly cut your throat for half a gold coin. She jumped off the tables and made her way to the bar, winking and grinning at low-lifes as they laid their depraved gaze and fantasies upon her. By the time she'd reached the tavern keeper - an unhealthily lean man with unkept curls and the eyes of a dead eagle - she was close to the point of vomiting.

The innkeeper - she didn't even know his name - nodded at her in a somewhat apathetic fashion, affirming that the meal she'd had this evening and lodging for tonight were considered payed. She wiped a long lock of white hair from her Elf-like face in relief, and immediately decided that she would retreat to her chamber for the remainder of the evening. Looking around at the riff-raff gathered, she also concluded that it would be better to barricade the inside of the door, along with locking it. Just as she turned around to make her way upstairs, she felt something warm and big close around her thin left arm, pulling her back to the bar in a manner that could be called gentle. For a gorilla.

"Hey babe," she smelled the words wafting her way as she looked the bearded man-ape into his bead-like black eyes. "How about I show you some real art?" Fear itched inside her stomach as she recognized Darron, a top crony from a rather notorious street gang that patrolled the streets around the Drital Qu'ellar for unlucky prey. Two equally muscled henchmen sat at Darron's right, and judging from the way they were looking at her crimson clothed frame, there could be no doubt as to how they were planning to spend this night. She looked around for aid, furious at her own helplessness. If she made any violent move or insulting remark, she'd most likely be robbed, murdered, and worse. She shivered. Time was running out, and the smile on Darron's face got ever broader. Where were heroic fools when you needed them?

While Wurzag didn't exactly fit the traditional hero archetype he had on occasion been referred to as a fool. The description was not entirely accurate; the half-orc was not a fool. Bad tempered, illiterate and uneducated perhaps, but certainly not a fool. Not much anyway. It could be said that anybody who chose to spend their evenings in a place like the Drital Qu'ellar was, if not foolish, then at least mentally deranged in some way. Despite its obvious lack of charm however the booze was cheap and nobody complained about having a half-orc for a patron.

This evening had seen Wurzag drift in after a hard, sweaty, but only mildly damaging day at the arena. He had a freshly stitched cut on his head and yet another swathe of bandages wrapped around his shoulder but was otherwise unharmed. He settled himself at the bar, ordered three flagons of ale and embarked on his ambition do drink himself into oblivion.

The entertainment had been unusual by Qu'ellar standards in as much as the girl actually possessed a modicum of talent. Not that Wurzag would have known talent if it had come up and bitten him on the arse, but the point was moot. Compared to the usual round of jugglers, country singers, banjo players and toothless yokels that populated the stage, the crimson-clad young woman had positively sparkled. Sadly, the half-orc had been largely unaware of the performance, engrossed as he was on his personal mission of drunkenness. It took a lot of alcohol to put a dent in an orcish constitution.

He was vaguely aware the the show had ended, and also vaguely aware of the heavily muscled grinning fool sat beside him, but he neither knew nor cared what exactly it was that was transpiring until the fat idiot leaned back and tipped his tankard over.

Wurzag blinked and studied the spreading lake of ale as it crept its way across the bar toward a thug who had taken an unhealthy interest in the young entertainer. Her plight was not his concern however. His wasted drink was.

"Did yooz just spill my pint?" He growled redundantly.

The man did not reply. He clearly had all his attention fixed on the young lady and her captor and the possible activities that were to follow.

"I said," Wurzag growled more forcefully, "did yooz just spill my pint?!"

Awareness slowly filtered into the lust-addled consciousness of the smirking idiot.

"What?" He muttered irritably.

"Yooz spilled my pint," Wurzag grumbled for a third time, now thoroughly incensed by the wastage.

"So what?" The human replied with a shrug.

"So wot? SO WOT?!" Wurzag drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height, "DIS IS WOT!" He bellowed in rage. Then he punched the man in the face so hard his head rebounded from the top of the bar.

"DATS WOT YER FUGGIN GIT! COME GED SOME!"

Every fiber of Carlyssa's being was filled with repulsion as she was drawn into the drunk brute's malodorous embrace. For a moment she panicked as the prison of flesh constricted itself around her fragile body even tighter, squeezing all air out of her lungs. A moment later, as Darron looked down on her and sent perverted susurrations in her general direction, along with the smell of spit, ale and old sweat, she much preferred being choked. Several men around the bar began to laugh at her peril in fiendish enjoyment, a bold few even encouraging their leader through cheer and whistle. The innkeeper stood by and watched, corpse-like as ever, and fear sent shudders through her spine as the nightmare expanded around her.

She was just about to faint in the festering warmth of the bandit's iron clamp when something happened behind her. By the grace of whatever deity had seen fit to incite the rage of a Half-Orc in the Drital Qu'ellar tonight, Darron dropped her back to the floor, where she had mere seconds to stand and recover before she had to duck away from the Orcish man's fist as it lashed back before perfectly fitting its knuckles on Darron's underling's nose. The bandit went to the floor without as much as a groan, but judging from the sound of chairs scraping and daggers being drawn all around her, Carlyssa was quite sure that this would be the perfect moment to abscond from the soon-to-be battlefield. As Darron stood up clumsily, roaring insults at the Half-Orc that had unknowingly saved her, she crept away from the bar and soon broke into a run to the pub's exit on the other side of the room.

"Oh no ya don't, missy!" she heard a rough voice jeering behind her, mere seconds before something heavy closed itself around her legs, causing her to fall to the floor. She rolled onto her back just in time to see a toothless bandit, old but chiseled, crawling over her. He laughed at her wild attempts to push him away with her legs, and soon had both of her arms pinned to the floor, disregarding the fact that he was pushing Carlyssa's left arm harshly into a piece of broken glass. His foul visage bent over her soft features with a devilish smirk. With her emotions an erratic hurricane of terror and rage, she spat in his face, causing him to loosen his grip. With a high-pitched shriek, she proceeded to jab both of her thumbs into his eyes and pushed as hard as she could. She would never be able to describe how it'd felt when her fingers sank deep into the eyesockets, releasing oozing streams of blood from both orafices - but for now, her primal instinct of survival had been satiated.

Ignoring the pain in her injured arm, which was bleeding at a rather profuse speed, Carlyssa got to her feet and hastily slumped towards the exit. Behind her, the fight was slowly going out of hand. Chairs were being smashed over heads and several bandits seemed to be fighting on the Half-Orc's side for no reason but the actual fighting, or simply because they hated Darron and his gang for having the monopoly of violence around this notorious inn. She heard Darron screaming something over the battlecries, and moments later, a lean frame darted passed her, pushing her aside into a table as though she were a rag doll. Through tears, Carlyssa bit away the pain of the collision. She had to get out. The man that Darron had sent away was likely to return with reinforcements from the gang, and with weapons - and at that point, it was quite certain that there would be deaths in the Drital Qu'ellar tonight.

Try as she might, she could not get up - the pain in her ribs was simply too great - so she let herself fall back to the floor just in time to see a chair leg flying overhead. She creeped backwards and leaned against a wall, planning to use it as a support to reach the entranceway as soon as the stinging anguish in her ribs subsided. This was definitely the last time she'd ever visited this tavern. Hopeless for the moment, she cast a glance at the bar, to see how her ignorant savior was doing. Although the Half-Orc's actions hadn't really been dedicated to saving her from a fate worse than death, coincidence had made it so regardless of his intent, and merely that simple fact was enough for her to root for him.

It was a good punch. Later, when he was more sober and had the time and energy to reflect upon the evening he would judge it as one of his best. Right at that point in time however he was far more concerned with the growing number of hostile people surrounding him. There was a pregnant pause filled with the sort of tension that precludes a storm and he felt, rather than heard the gathering ire in the room behind him. It was full of knives and clubs and all manner of other crude implements designed to put a crimp in his enjoyment.

Then the greasy thug who had accosted the entertainer was in his face yelling a torrent abuse that would have made a sailor blush. Wurzag didn't hear most of what was said, and didn't understand much of what he did hear but the gist was unmistakable. He listened for a few moments, a thoughtful expression painted on his orcish features, then he leaned back a little before slamming his forehead into the bridge of the cretin's nose with an audible crack. A spurt of warm blood splattered across the front of his already badly stained shirt and the thug fell back in shock and surprise.

Then the real violence erupted.

Wurzag was vaguely aware of something red disappearing out of his field of vision along the bar, but then his attention was grabbed by a man attempting to stab him in the kidneys with a rusty dirk. He twisted aside in time to avoid the full brunt of the thrust and instead received a jagged laceration along his ribs. He grunted in pain, but retained enough presence of mind to grab the over-extended limb and chop at the elbow joint with a blow of his own. There was a satisfying crunch of bone followed by an even more satisfying scream of agony. The knife clattered to the floor.

Chaos had engulfed the tavern; old grievances once again flared, new grievances were made and those who merely reveled in violence surged into the fray.

Wurzag ducked a bar stool as it sailed through the air, caught a glancing kick to the knee and received a punch to the side of the head. The world momentarily cartwheeled and he found himself staring into the face of a total stranger. He punched it anyway on the off-chance it was an enemy and then had his legs knocked from under him by a falling table. Crawling along the floor was almost as dangerous as remaining upright as booted feet stomped around him and in one case on him but he scrabbled his way beneath the relative shelter of an upright table and hunkered down to catch his breath.

The brawl was clearly in full swing and it would not be long before people stopped being merely injured and started become fatalities. Wurzag did not intend to be around that long.

A knife clattered to the floor and he quickly scooped it up before stabbing it into a randomly selected foot. The boot's occupant howled in anguish and hopped away from the table. Wurzag seized the opportunity and forged his way back out into the throng. He knew if he could reach a wall he could follow it to the door and from there, the comparative safety of the street. He aimed himself at the nearest wall and scuttled his way across the floor.

He'd almost made it when a pair of boots planted themselves firmly in his way.

He looked up and saw that they were filled with the other burly henchman that had been propping up the bar with Greasy. The man held a heavy looking cudgel and sported a nasty grin. Wurzag grinned back and thrust his dagger into the idiot's groin. The thug reacted with a high-pitched shriek of truly masculine agony and toppled to the floor clutching weakly at his wounded manhood. Wurzag surged to his feet and stood grinning over the squirming felon.

"Yer," he growled fiercely, "dats wot yooz get!"

Then he realised that he was face to face with the young woman in red. Splattered with both his own blood and that of several patrons, bandaged, torn and with one eye already half closed from swelling he was hardly the image of a saviour. He blinked his good eye and tried to get his vision to focus.

"Er," he began unsteadily as havoc roiled around the room, "yooz shud be careful, it ain't exackly safe in 'ere." There was a crash as something or someone sailed through a window. "Or out der eiver by da sound ov it."

Then a stool crashed over his back and exploded into match-wood. Wurzag winced.

"Scuse me a minute," he said and turned his broad back on her like a shield to confront his latest attacker.

Carlyssa very much doubted whether even an establishment as disreputable as the Drital Qu'ellar had ever seen this kind of devastation. Even the innkeeper's stoic expression had been lost to the bloodlust of the bar brawl. The curly-haired man now wielded a crowbar while he stood before his most precious liquors, ready to defend them from every scoundrel who longed to stealthily profit from the current chaos by snatching away a bottle or two. Moments before, one of the young men in his service had sprinted through the exit, most likely to request assistance from the town guard. The young entertainer grimaced through the dull pain in her side. Even if any guards came at all, they most certainly wouldn't be as foolish as to actually enter the fray.

Her thoughts were perturbed by angry screams from outside, and for a moment she expected more of Darron's gang members to burst through the entranceway. However, when clangs of steel and battlecries rolled into the inn from the street, her mind painted another picture. Apparently, the fighting in the tavern had spread to the thugs outside like wildfire. Even if she would be able to escape from the inn, she would probably be faced with new hazards outside. She let out a bitter giggle. Now the guard would steer well clear of this area until the violence subsided, which, she judged after viewing yet another scrawny bandit colliding ungracefully with a wooden chair, would not be happening for a very long time. Although the stings in her ribs were slowly ebbing into obscurity, she probably wouldn't make it very far if she left the Drital right now. But if she stayed, some thugs were bound to notice her eventually. All in all, the situation was looking rather grim.

She shifted her eyes back to the core of the battle, to see how the Half-Orc was doing against his many foes, and blinked in surprise when she could not distinguish his cyclopean frame between the gathered bunch of flailing arms, feet, and cruder paraphernalia. Her bewilderment wasn't given the time to fade, because after what seemed like only a second, the intimidating character she'd sought to view was standing right in front of her. Despite the fact that he didn't seem to wish her harm - or he at least appeared not to be willing to attack her - Carlyssa was quite taken aback by his savage visage. Although she had few memories of Half-Orcs to compare it to apart from illustrations in dusty tomes, this one seemed particularly ravaged by battle, and not only because of the new injuries that this vicious brawl had inflicted upon him.

His voice was gruff and Carlyssa had to do her very best to actually comprehend the words in Common Language rolling forth with an Orcish, predatorial intonation - quite the difficult task, for her ears were buzzing with background noise and her mind was quite bedazzled by the fact that the individual she'd judged to be the most brutish of all these ruffians was the one concerning himself with her safety at the moment. Although he was very much stating the obvious, she immediately felt as though she'd gained an ally - a strange reaction that many humans showed whenever they were in serious danger. Her heart jumped up as a bulky frame crashed through the inn's window from outside, sending glassy sharpnel flying in every direction. Determined not to let the Half-Orc's outstretched sympathy lie in void, she nodded encouragingly at the very moment that a brawny thug appeared behind her oafish new companion, tensely holding a chair behind his back. "Look o...!" she shouted, but her words came too late.

She squinted her eyes in pity as the stool crashed into the giant's back, but her sympathy quickly changed to admiration when the savage simply shrugged the assault off, excused himself in an almost gentleman-like manner, and turned around to face his new attacker. Carlyssa's heart began to itch with anxiety as she noticed that the brawl was slowly moving their way. Apparently, there were enough of Darron's men left - men that would very much like to see the Half-Orc between them and her gutted, impaled, or worse. She wouldn't have been able to aid the poor barbarian even if she'd been in a perfectly healthy state - her talents did not lie in combat. Despite his wounds, the black-haired behemoth seemed to be holding himself against the new wave of bandits rather fine, but Carlyssa worried that the scoundrels would soon block off their only route of escape. Thereby, the shouts out in the street drew ever closer. Soon, the two battles would become one great slaughterfest.

And it seemed that nothing would save her or the Half-Orc from being at the very centre of it.

Still slightly stunned that his assault had not done more damage, the chair-wielder was caught completely off-guard when Wurzag landed a thundering upper-cut into his jaw. The blow lifted the thug from the ground and sent him sprawling amidst the wreckage and chaos strewn around the floor. He was swiftly trampled beneath the swirling melee and did not rise again. The half-orc sagged a little as exhaustion and injury finally began to take their toll on his abused flesh, but he was as stubborn as he was thick skulled and refused to yield while there even a slim possibility of escape.

The encroaching circle of thuggery did not bode well for his chances however.

He glanced over his shoulder at his scarlet-clad companion. She was unarmed and ill-equipped for combat and her slight build would not last long in the maelstrom that was rapidly approaching their position.

Though he lacked manners, decency and personal hygiene, Wurzag had never knowingly assaulted anybody who was unable to defend themselves. Unless they had provoked him, he quickly amended. Sadly, throughout his life the half-orc had classed anything from attempted theft to a funny look as 'provocation'. At this precise moment though, surrounded on all sides by the scum of Lomedor and in very real danger of being added to the harbour's body collection the young woman was about as far from provocation as it was possible to get.

"Erm ... " he began awkwardly.

Then he was forced to duck as a broken bottle whistled past his ear. He grabbed his latest assailant by the arm and with a titanic heave, hoisted the unfortunate into the air. He held the thrashing man above his head for a moment, receiving several new cuts for his trouble before hurling him into the advancing foes with as much force as he could muster. The cordon of thugs collapsed into a tangle of flailing limbs creating a momentary lull.

"I fink," he began again hurriedly, "dat weez shud be leavin'" The combined efforts of pain and exertion had sobered him rapidly and he had finally begun to realise that the tide of animosity in the room was waxing in their direction. The sounds of escalating battle outside precluded any escape that way, and Wurzag was far from a tactical genius when it came to facing superior numbers.

From the corner of his eye he spied the stairs that lead up to what passed for accommodation in the the Qu'ellar. With any luck it also lead to the roof, or at worst a window. The buildings in this quarter of the city were piled so closely together that it was, at least theoretically, possible to jump from one roof to the next. He had once heard the practise referred to as the 'brigands causeway' but had never really credited the tale with much faith.

Now he hoped that it was true. Whatever brigands lurked on the causeway they could not be nearly as numerous as those on the ground. He gestured hurriedly toward the stairs. "Dat way I reckon," he said, urging the woman to run, "dunt worry, I gots a plan!" He tapped the side of his head with a bleeding finger and grinned broadly.

"Not as stoopid as I look huh!"

Lyon wasn’t in a particularly good mood today. Lomedor was a big city, and walking through it for half the day was never fun. He had gotten up early this morning, leaving his comfortable bed in the Wilwarin Inn, to scout around the city. He was a mercenary, and if he wanted to continue eating, he needed to find work. He had traveled across the entire continent to reach this place, in the hopes of good business, only to find that no one would hire him. Currently, he was managing to live off of the meager supply of gold he had, but that was quickly dwindling thanks to the cost of food and rent. He could have stayed at a different Inn, one that wasn’t so expensive, but the Wilwarin came with benefits. It was undoubtedly the best place for him to find work. So far, though, no luck. When would fortune shine down upon him, and bless him with luck?

Not today, it would seem.

From some far off alley, he heard a faint sound that reminded him of drunken morons fighting. He also recognized the sound of a man screaming at the top of his lungs. Then again, the word “recognized” was a bit inaccurate, seeing as how what it was was pretty obvious. You couldn’t really mistake a scream for anything else. It was high-pitched and gut-wrenching. Nothing else to it. He glanced over to see a few guards strolling about, not even taking a single look towards the sounds. ”Hey!” he shouted towards them. They looked over towards him, seeming irritated that they had been bothered. ”Aren’t you going to take a look over there and see what’s happening?”

One of the guards shrugged. “The Drital Qu’ellar pub is over there. This kind of stuff is normal.”

Lyon blinked a few times. ”So…,” he said, slightly bemused, ”you, uh, aren’t going to do anything?”

“Nope.” The guard answered. “It’s probably just some little skirmish. Nothing big.”

At this moment a thoroughly bashed body came flying out from the side alley, landing right in front of the guards. They looked down at it, then at each other, looking slightly surprised. At that moment a man came running from the same alley, cuts all over him, blood running down his face.

“G-guards!” the man said, gasping for breath. “The whole alley is in chaos! Everyone…everyone is fighting!”

“T-t-the entire place?” one of the guards stammered.

“Yes! It’s packed with fighting people! Inside the pub and out!”

”Out on the streets!?” a guard exclaimed. “Well, it looks like we can’t ignore this one…” he retrieved a whistle from somewhere amongst his person, and blew it, its shrill noise summoning ten other guards as they came running from some other place.

“Let’s go, boys!” The guard that had blew the whistle shouted. They ran over to the street upon which the Pub was on, only to stop with looks of horror. Driven by a morbid curiosity, Lyon walked over next to him, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head.

Indeed, the entire street was fighting. It was as if the entire world had gone mad. There were thrashing figures everywhere, practically forming a wall in the street. The guards looked at each other, apparently not able to decide what to do.

“Well…” one of them said. “We, uh, can’t really do anything about this…” A few others were quick to agree. Before they could make their retreat, however, a fighting man saw them, and shouted out, “Look! Guards!” There was a roar so loud that Lyon thought he was going to be deafened for life, and some of the larger thugs roughly grabbed a few guards and shoved them into the fray.

Lyon quickly turned around, shrugged to the remaining guards, and said ”Best of luck to you.” He took one step towards a more pleasant place, before he felt his legs knocked out from under him. He did a face-plant into the ground, and then someone grabbed him and dragged him, paying no consideration whatsoever as to how uncomfortable this was. Lyon lashed out with his free foot, heard a pained grunt, and leaped up, only to get knocked back down again as someone kicked him in the back of his knees.

From his position amongst the dirt of the street, Lyon saw that the man who had originally attacked him had been considerate enough to drag him right into the middle of the fighting. Lyon’s first instinct was to draw his sword, but there was not enough room for sword work, so crowded were the streets. So he crawled over to a club that had been dropped by some unknown rough, wrapped his hand around it, and swung at some random leg that was in front of him. The owner of the man, a bad-smelling man, dropped down next to him.

”Hi,” Lyon said, smiling at him. ”It’s pretty comfortable down here, isn’t it? Oh, by the way, did you drop this?” The man stared dumbly at the club Lyon held in his hand. Lyon took this moment to slam the wooden weapon into the idiot’s face. The mercenary stood up, looking around for some way out of this madness-driven throng. The only path he saw lay through a bunch of psychos.

”Great.” he said, sighing. ”This is just what I-“ before he could finish, the club was knocked out of his hand by a flying fist. Some big bald guy grabbed him and shoved him to the side of the street, snarling in his face. Lyon scowled and punched him in the gut, knocking the air out of him. This having been done, he glanced over to his left to see a building, not very pleasant looking, but maybe it was better place to be than here? He slipped along the wall, ignored by the crazed combatants, and forced his way into the door, only to get punched in the face.

”You guys are really starting to tick me off!” he shouted out. In answer to his outburst, a huge man literally picked him up and threw him roughly ten feet across the room. As Lyon rather painfully landed, he looked over to see a girl dressed almost entirely in red. She had no weapons on her, and he quickly judged her as an innocent bystander.

"Sorry to state the obvious," he said to the girl, "but this is a rather rough situation we're in, isn't it?" He looked up at a large figure close by, and his mouth fell open in disbelief. "Burning hell!" he exclaimed. "There's an orc here!"

However much she liked to think of herself as an independent woman, Carlyssa could not repress the jowls of fear encroaching her mind like the bandits were slowly pushing back the Half-Orc to her location. As she rose to her feet, her back rubbing harshly against the dusty tavern wall, she grimly wondered whether there was any use in resisting these overwhelming odds. Her pessimism was remedied slightly when yet another scoundrel was sent afly into his companions by one of the Half-Orc's well-placed punches. Still, she knew that even with his humongous strength, the sympathetic savage would not be able to hold his ground forever. Of what little the young artist could make up from the fighter's tensed features and wild eye movements, she reasoned that he was thinking the exact same thing.

A slight pause in the brawl allowed the Half-Orc to speak to her once more. Though she wouldn't have taken any advice on escape routes from creatures related to Orcs on a normal day, she could think of nothing better as she followed his enormous outstretched paw with her eyes, resting them thoughtfully on the dilapidated staircase some seven yards away. How on Arda were they going to make it there? Not only would the remainder of able bandits go to greath lengths to desist any attempt to retreat, the path that lead there was also strewn with broken furniture, puddles of ale, and several unconscious bodies. Nevertheless, she nodded in agreement, knowing that it could not be worse than slowly being worn down in their current position. "Our only way out, I agree. And you don't look stupid," she spoke with as friendly a voice as she could muster, considering the noisome situation. Despite her best efforts, her voice trembled. "Dangerous, intimidating, maybe even brutish, but not stu... LOOK OUT!" What she'd meant to be a shout-out warning resulted in something more reminiscent of a choking nightingale.

Combat had resumed while she'd been thinking and talking, and she didn't dare look as a giant, bald thug with an eyepatch ran towards the equally gigantic Half-Orc, to ram his body into her protector's back shoulder-first. Trying to ignore the guilt flooding into her mind, she prepared herself to make her way towards the stairs, yet she could not do more than simply stand and wait in unbearable tension - wandering out of the safe area behind the Half-Orc's broad back would be utterly suicidal. Something flashed in the corner of her eye, and she ducked more out of reflex than out of wisdom - but she did not care about the impulse, very glad that the empty bottle now crashed into a thousand sharp pieces against the senseless wall instead of her much more vulnerable head.

Just as she decided to stand up once more, another fast-moving shadow fell over her, much bigger than the last. She gasped in anxiety and immediately grabbed hold of a nearby piece of splintered wood, ready to strike as soon as the heap of crashed flesh and bone showed any intent of assaulting her. Through intensive effort, she'd already managed to lift the far too heavy piece of furniture halfway overhead, but then, blue eyes locked with hers, and she saw her own surprise reflected in his, making her drop the improvisory club immediately. Suddenly, regardless of the fact that a battle was raging on around them, she felt very annoyed that he had scared her like that and most of all, that he was calmly making wry remarks about what could very well be her impending death. However, that exasperation quickly dissolved into a mirthful grimace when his amazed exclamation regarding the courageous Half-Orc's presence rolled over her.

"At least he's more courteous than everyone here bunched together," she taunted the newcomer with a hoarse shout, for the background noise swelled with waves of clang and clunk and cuss. The last thing they needed was a potential ally attacking their only true line of defense from the rear; particularly because the brown-haired fighter did not seem like one of the drunk bandits, at all. In brighter times, Carlyssa would have thought him rather handsome, but there was no time for such giggle-inducing thoughts, as the tide of scoundrels stormed on ever more gravely. "But eh, we were just heading ou..." she started while pointing her hand hastily toward the staircase the Half-Orc had mentioned earlier, but her breath and her words stopped as her eyes fell on a lean ruffian jumping over the table that had thus far formed a weak fortification against the attacking patrons. "Oh no you don't!" she exclaimed as she picked up a heavy mug from the floor and flung it towards the new attacker, momentarily disregarding the painful detail that the blue-eyed man was in very close proximity to her target, and that she'd never been the best at aiming her throws.

Wurzag's broad grin at having been complimented for possibly the first time in his life was forestalled somewhat by the intervention of the cutthroat barreling into his back. The sheer impetus of the attack forced him almost face first into the wall, but the half-orc was a veteran pit fighter and had used such attacks himself on occasion. It also meant he knew how to counter them. Just before impact he lifted his legs and braced himself between the wall and his foe like a loaded spring, then he shoved back with his powerful thighs matching his own might against that of his attacker.

In the end, sheer body mass won.

Overbalanced and unprepared the thug fell backward with the half-orc on top of him. There was a whoosh of expelled breath as the air was forced from his lungs by the weight of his enemy and his grip around Wurzag's waist loosened fractionally. That fraction, however slight, was enough for the half-orc to seize the advantage. He twisted in his enemies grasp until he faced him and then wrestled his foe back to his feet. The one-eyed thug was obviously at home with this fighting style and was prepared to match Wurzag in a contest of brute strength.

He had clearly never had to measure his might against that of a green-skin. Wurzag grinned nastily and wrapped his arms around his enemies waist. Then with terrible, almost mechanical strength he began to squeeze.

At first his foe did not seem alarmed, he strove to match the half-orc, biceps straining and a fierce grin plastered across his savage mien. Then the pressure began to mount and his grin faltered. By steady increments Wurzag increased his vice-like grip, arms locked like an iron circle about a cart wheel and still he piled on the pressure. The thug winced in pain as the air in his lungs was once again squeezed out and he gave up his attempt to crush his enemy. Instead he butted the half-orc in the face with an audible crack that drew a stream of blackish blood from one nostil.

Wurzag did not falter.

The bald rogue struck again, punching his attacker in the face several times, splitting a lip and raising another welt above the already injured eye. Wurzag gritted his teeth in a snarl of fury as at long last his orcish rage finally bubbled to the surface. His frenzied attacker tried one last ditch attempt to break free and locked his meaty hands around the half-orc's thick throat.

His oxygen deprived limbs were not the equal of the task however.

With a final incoherent bellow of rage Wurzag lifted his opponent into the air. Muscles bulging like hawsers he gave one, last, colossal heave and there was sickening, wet, crack like a rotten branch breaking. The cyclopean rogue sagged, his body wilting at a peculiar and wholly unnatural angle. Then Wurzag dropped him to the floor of the tavern and turned his maimed visage to the newcomer.

"Yez," he growled between ragged gasps, "an orc!"

The young man, unlike the rest of the tavern occupants, did not seem to pose any sort of immediate threat. Wurzag was seething with rage now however, the battle-lust tinging everything with a patina of crimson.

A knife lanced through the meat of his shoulder in a gory spray that came close to painting the young entertainer, not that the fluid would have looked out of place on the young woman's attire. Without looking, and before the blade could be withdrawn he seized the offending hand that had driven it into his flesh and gave it a brutal twist, shattering the fragile wrist bones and mangling them beyond repair.

He once again turned his attention to the tightening circle of chaos that had, by now, almost fully encompassed them. Then he threw all of his remaining energy into a orcish battle-cry that shook the remaining windows in their frames. It was followed by an instant of deafening silence broken only by the tinkle of unseen glass somewhere behind the bar.

"I fink," he mumbled raggedly, "dat now ... we shud be leavin!"

Then he put his head down and charged toward the stairs, heedless of intervening obstacles. Hopefully his newfound companions would have the good sense to follow in the wake of their living plough.

Lyon couldn’t help but watch in an interested fashion as the orc began to wrestle with the rogue that had been moronic enough to face him. Lyon had fought orcs before. The result? A broken finger and a severely painful limp that lasted for a few weeks. He winced as the ruffian’s entire body made a disgusting cracking sound, and was dropped to the floor. As he watched the fight, entranced, he saw a bold man jump over one of the tables that it seemed the duo he had stumbled upon had been using to defend themselves. The scarlet-clad girl made an angry-sounding statement at this, and threw a mug in the general direction of said man. Somehow, unfortunately, the mug decided to go for him , and Lyon quickly ducked as the cup went flying overhead. It wasn’t a complete failure, however. As he continued to watch it, it slammed into the face of another person, and Lyon couldn’t help but smile slightly in amusement. This was short-lived, as he remembered the original target of the mug. It seemed the man had successfully gotten over the table. With a scowl, Lyon grabbed him before he could get any further, kneed him in the groin, and shoved him back, causing him to trip over the very table he had just jumped over.

Just at this moment, he saw black blood squirt from the shoulder of the orc, thanks to a knife stab. In return, the wielder of the blade got his hand broken. “Ouch.” Lyon said, grimacing. Apparently, the orc was now very, very mad. He made loud roar, which Lyon guessed was a sort of war cry for orcs, which could have matched an explosion. The silence that followed was slightly comic. Lyon couldn’t help shouting out, ”You should see him when he’s really mad!” Then, in response to the orc’s suggestion, Lyon nodded, and turning to the girl, he said “I think it might be a good idea if we took his advice.” Turning back around, he saw that their rather blunt ally was already charging his way towards the stairs, knocking men, tables, and chairs out of his way. Lyon ran after him, expecting the girl to follow.

Unfortunately, Lyon was not a huge, heavily muscled orc. Obviously, the occupants of the pub thought him easier prey. Before he could reach the stairs, a man about the same size as him bodily tackled him, knocking him to the ground. Lyon lashed out with his foot, and as he felt a connection, his attacker grunted. Lyon quickly scrambled up onto his legs, and seeing the man trying to get back up, Lyon did not hesitate to slam his foot into the fellow’s ugly face. The guy reared back, howling as blood poured from his nose.

He saw yet another guy coming towards him, and a very strong surge of irritation rose up in him. This isn't funny anymore, he thought, and drew his sword from it's sheath. This successfully made the approaching would-be-attacker stop in his tracks, and with a scornful look to all in the pub, he said "Now, unless any of you have any more objections, I really have to go!" This being said, he continued his hasty path towards the stairs.

Carlyssa wasn't used to being anyone's burden, particularly not in a life-threatening situation like the one unfolding around her. First, she'd distracted the Half-Orc which had led the slowly tiring giant into a struggle that had taken up more energy than he could've afforded, and moments later, she'd only narrowly missed the single reinforcement they'd received during the entire course of the brawl with a brash, badly aimed ale mug. The doleful but coldly truthful realization that she'd only contributed to quickening their swiftly approaching demise, and not actually averting it, weighed down upon her impulsive nature like a silencing veil. It also brewed an unrelenting fury within her chest at being the helpless one, the hopeless one - even though deep inside, she knew that no more could be expected from a simple entertainer.

So, albeit that they'd again managed to dispose of a wave of attackers, escape became ever more problematic as fatigue siphoned more and more of the two men's stamina into nothingness. Carlyssa's eyes shot to and from the staircase, frenetically searching a relatively safe way to get there, and then despairing at the ratification that there was none. Meanwhile, the Half-Orc had intensely answered the blue-eyed man's surprised outcry, and payed the price for his focus shift with a shoulder wound that left Carlyssa gritting her teeth in compassion at the dark blood that splashed over her attire. However, her pity might have been more suitable if aimed for the knife-wielder, for the brawling behemoth twisted the man's weapon-wielding limb in such a way that the crimson singer pondered whether the man actually had so many bones as she'd heard cracking under the huge pressure.

The Half-Orc's fervid roar came so suddenly that Carlyssa felt as though her entrails were being forcefully tracted to the wall she stood against. For a moment, the giant warrior seemed to fill the entire, dirt-laden vestibule, and due to the cry's sheer intensity, the onslaught of bandits finally came to a temporary halt. The young artist could not agree more when her vigorous protector suggested that this was their best chance, and fell straight in line behind the brown-haired mercenary as he attempted to match the Half-Orcs speed in crashing through a swarm of perplexed scoundrels, shouting remarks about the bandits' fear of the Orc-kin in a way that almost made her laugh through her frightful panting. Almost. Only her reflexes saved her as the blue-eyed warrior was tackled by one of the brawlers he'd taunted - her strong, dancer's legs carried her over the two grounded fighters in a swallow-like leap.

Unfortunately, she landed on a piece of floor that was littered with spilled ale, and she had throw her entire weight forward to maintain her balance. Behind her, the mocking mercenary was treating his attacker to several vicious kicks, which gave Carlyssa a split-second idea about how to deal with the open-armed, heavyset bandit into whose embrace she was inevitably slipping. In a daring feat of flexibility, she sweeped her right leg up in a crescent-shaped kick that hit home between the poor thug's legs. Carlyssa almost felt sorry as the man's eyes rolled up into his skull and he clutched his squatted manhood, but when she realized she now had a nearly clear run to the safety of the staircase, her ignorance-ridden sympathy dimmed somewhat. The blue-eyed merc had caught up with her, and for the first time since the Half-Orc had protected her, the artist dared have a small spark of hope, hope of sweet survival.

Her peronsal utopia was short-lived, however, as another bandit sprang into their path. This time, however, the fighter beside her had the time and space to unsheath his sword with a brilliant ring. Suddenly faced with a lethal edge of steel, the oncoming thug halted, definitely not aching to mount a frontal, unarmed attack against a skilled swordsman. Carlyssa circled along with her sword-wielding protector towards the staircase as he spat some words at the decisionless bandit, but her eyes were not fixed on her ally, nor on the as of now rather harmless bandit. No, her violet orbs had caught a shade slipping through the entranceway, and when the origin of that shadow came into clear vision from between the throng of bandits, she violently tugged at the mercenary's shoulder in deathly fright before running up the staircase which the Half-Orc had already ascended.

She knew the pale, black-robed man that had floated into the inn. Darron was as harmless as spring lemonade when compared to his commander - and the leader of criminal activity around the Drital Qu'ellar. She'd heard enough stories about the man's cruel magics, so much even that she much preferred jumping from a second-floor window to falling into his dark embrace. Heavily panting, she sprinted up the stairs, occasionally setting her hands on the steps to maintain her balance, with no regard as to whether her sword-wielding ally was following in suit; she very much hoped that he wouldn't stay and play the hero. Still, Carlyssa could not know what the mercenary's reaction to the new entrant would be, mainly because her own emotions were amplified by the insidious mage's Fear spell, which he had cast as soon as he'd entered the inn - even though she had no way of telling that she was bewitched.

"Where is this Orc ravaging through my men?" she vaguely heard a dark, fury-filled voice from below. "Tell me! I will flay the rotten beast with my bare hands!" Tears formed in Carlyssa's eyes as she neared the top of the stairs, overwhelmed by the combination of the mage's spell and the malevolence scouring through his voice.

Wurzag galloped up the wooden stairs two at a time. Though he only experienced the fringes of the fear spell it was more than enough to convince him that he wanted nothing to do with whatever was downstairs. It was time to exercise the good old orcish strategy of the tactical withdrawal. He stumbled to a halt at the top of the staircase and stood there gasping for several moments. Plastered with sweat and blood and half blind from his wounds, the half-orc was running on pure rage and adrenaline. It would not sustain him for long.

As he stood there panting he became aware of the fact that the timbre of the conflict below had altered, subtly shifting from anarchic pandemonium to a more structured form of havoc. Something, or someone had imposed their will on the proceedings and given the thugs a focus.

Through the crash and clamour of the continuing destruction Wurzag was able to pick out the dire imprecations directed toward his battered person and though he had no idea who the speaker was he was not about to stand around and find out. He'd come back later when he'd had a bit of a lay down. With his sword. And some friends.

The sound of running feet on the stairs put an end to his musing and he gathered himself for a renewed bout of hostilities. Fists bunched and ready to strike he was surprised when the young entertainer girl sprinted up the stairs, beneath his waiting arms and on down the hall. Clearly she had managed to out-distance their latest ally and had come to the same conclusion as the half-orc: they had worn out their welcome in the Drital Qu'ellar.

"Ay!" Wurzag yelled after her, "wait up, yooz shudn't go runnin' off like dat, yer get into trouble!" Given the amount of damage already done during the evening's activities the statement seemed a little redundant. "More trouble!" He added lamely as she disappeared from view around the corner.

"Ah fuggit!" He grumbled and heaved his ravaged body into motion. If their uncommonly pretty new acquaintance had an ounce of sense he would follow them up the stairs as soon as possible. Wurzag certainly hoped so; the man possessed a sword and if things did not go according to plan the weapon would be needed sooner rather than later.

At a loping run Wurzag was able to catch up with the fleeing young woman and pass her further up the hall. A quick glance revealed that she was wild-eyed with fear and must have been much closer to the epicentre of the blast of terror he had felt as he fled up the stairs. She certainly didn't seem in any fit state to communicate beyond her desire to put distance between herself and the bar. Wurzag sighed heavily and thundered on up the hall and following staircase to the third floor of the building. There he was forced to stop, gasping and exhausted as the corridor terminated at a small window flanked on either side by tough wooden shutters. The hall was lined with doors and as he stood there sweating and bleeding a head peered out from behind one of them. Wurzag glared at the bald little man and grinned.

"Ged back ta bed grandad," he rumbled, "ain't nuffin to see 'ere!"

The man hurriedly retreated and slammed the door behind him. There was the sound of several locks turning and then silence. It was short lived however, as once again the sound of booted foot pounded out a rhythm on the wooden floor behind him. He hoped it was entertainer or their sword-wielding friend but Wurzag had had a rough night as was not prepared to take any risks. "Fug dis," he growled and took a quick glance out the window to assess the situation.

Jumping to the street was clearly not an option. Even if there hadn't been a swirling melee occupying the alley below the fall would have crippled him and above all Wurzag was a survivor. Instead he looked to the neighbouring rooftop where he hoped he might finally find egress from the pub and its surrounding chaos. Under normal circumstances a leap of eight feet would not have daunted him terribly, but tired and wounded and bleeding heavily the shingled roof seemed a continent away. It was however the only place left to run.

He retreated to the top of the stairs to maximise his running distance and glanced down in time to see that his pursuer was indeed the woman in red and then he put all of his remaining strength into a charge that he hoped would carry him over the deadly drop. If it didn't, he reflected, he wouldn't have to worry about it for long.

At the last possible moment he put his head down and launched himself at the fragile barrier. Wood, glass and old lead exploded into the night, catching the moonlight like a spray of argent and amidst it all sailed Wurzag, arms outstretched in the fervent hope of something to grab before gravity took its toll and hurled him earthward.

It seemed as though they were clear, that they would make it up the stairs and out to freedom. He had already assembled in his head what the half-orc’s plan was; traveling along the roof, just as a thief would do. That was, of course, relying on chance a little, seeing as how Lyon had no way of knowing whether or not there even was a way to a neighboring roof, but he decided he would trust the only person that seemed to have any general idea as to how to get out. A good plan, he himself thought. He was slightly surprised that a blood-lust driven orc had thought of it. Then again, this orc obviously wasn't your normal breed, seeing as how he had felt the need to protect this young woman.

Just as the feeling of triumph had settled over him, however, something changed. The aura in the room became malevolent, as though a dark veil had settled over it. Confusion mounted in Lyon’s brain, for he could recognize that something was off, but he couldn’t quite name what it was. A strange feeling, one that he very much did not like. Just at this moment, the scarlet-clad girl tugged at his shoulder, and he glanced over at her only to see that she was already sprinting up the stairs, looking as though she had seen a ghost. Lyon glanced around the room, looking for the source of her terror, and saw a robed figure, one that exuded an evil presence. Just as Lyon looked at him, he felt that strange feeling slam him full in the face, and his insides churned with something akin to fear.

Lyon didn’t like being afraid.

Without hesitating, he ran up the stairs after the two others, not even taking glances back to see if he was being pursued. As he reached the top, he stumbled, losing his balance, and barely managed to get himself back into a proper situation upon his legs. He resumed his panicked pursuit of the two others, and as he rounded the corner, he saw the girl, and the orc, the latter of which had just charged towards and busted through a window. Lyon intensely hoped that there was a rooftop not too far away from that window, or the orc would find himself in a lot of pain. Not to mention that if there wasn’t, he himself wouldn’t be able to get out.

He heard the stomping of boots from the corridor he had just exited, and couldn’t resist letting a few choice words emerge from his mouth, hoping the girl wouldn’t mind. It seemed the bandits couldn’t just let them go. How on Arda had he even got caught up in this? At least that horrible feeling the robed man had caused had subsided slightly, so perhaps he was still downstairs. Lyon didn’t know what that man was capable of, and he had no intention to find out.

With a glance to the window and then back to the stairs, he sighed, and said to the girl, “We can’t jump at the same time, and these guys are right behind us. I’ve got a weapon, so…you go first. I’ll come right after.” He couldn’t believe he was actually going to risk his life for a complete stranger, but that annoying little voice in his head would never leave him alone about it if he ran out now. Besides, he doubted these scoundrels could do much against him when he had his sword out. It was that new arrival that worried him.

He positioned himself at the end of the corrider, sword in hand, and waited for the fools to come. Idiot, he couldn't help thinking in his mind.

The dimly lit staircase slowly sharpened back into focus, and Carlyssa felt the compelling vines of primal survival instinct crawl back into their husk, returning to her the complete control over limbs. Trembling, sweating, and disoriented, she nearly fell down the several stairsteps she'd already ascended towards the third floor of the pub when she was startled by a dark shade standing atop the staircase, facing away from her. As the frame turned his bloodied visage around to check up on her, however, she felt strangely relieved - in later times, she would wonder whether she'd been the first human on Arda to have actually been alleviated by an Orcish gaze.

At the moment, however, their pool of time was swiftly running dry, so she quickly dropped her contemplations, blaming them on the confusion that had arisen from the process of regaining free will after having been hexed with recalcitrant terror. She could hear a horde of prehensile paws in weathered leather brave the first staircase below, but more importantly, she could still feel the presence of that... man... on the bottom floor. She shivered with fright, but flushed with shame. Without a word, she'd been robbed of her volition and sent fleeing about like a stray lamb. Yes, they definitely had to leave this place, and quickly.

But how?

Her query was quickly answered when the great Half-Orc left his position at the top of the stairs, carried forward like a flash of lightning by his predatorial legs. Carlyssa stood breathlessly as she heard the sounds of crashing glass and woodwork, and it suddenly became all too clear to her what escape route the savage warrior had thought of. With the window broken, she could clearly hear the screams of battle raging on in the neighboring alley. She swallowed harshly as she moved up the stairs, silently noting that their newest acquaintance had also made it out of the common room in relative safety as he emerged from the shadows next to her. His face was creased with what she thought was worry and anger - not exactly the fear that had affected her, a feat which she surreptitiously envied for a second before returning to the matters at hand.

As the forcibly opened window came into view, she felt slightly better. Although the distance to bridge was considerable, and although she could not distinguish the Half-Orcs muscular frame between the slate shadows of the decrepit buildings on the other side of the alley, the unchanged tide of combat below and lack of a final roar of failure suggested that he'd safely made it to the other roof. The thudding of too many boots against old, wooden planks came ever closer, and the mercenary beside her spoke in synchrony with what she thought. A moment of horrible silence hung between them as Carlyssa shifted her eyes anxiously from the broken window to his blue orbs. Then he spoke - it sounded slightly forced, but genuine nonetheless.

His words bathed her insides in rational relief but also gnawed at her conscience - he was putting himself in danger so that she could get away. Even though there could be no arguing that he was much more proficient in combat, the crimson artist doubted that such skill would be of any use against the sheer number of scoundrels and - that man. A voice inside her mind screamed urgently and ripped her out of hesitation, deciding there and then that she would not let his small show of nobleness be wasted by her guilt. She nodded gratefully and added as good-naturedly as she could muster given the circumstances: "You'd better. Then you can at least tell me the name of the blue-eyed hero that helped save me." She winked beneath the slight shade of her hat, but it was a rather burdened show of appreciation.

And then, she ran.

Years of diligent performance, dance and acrobatics finally showed their pragmatic value, shining through her graceful movements as she accelerated towards the window that would guide her into the freedom of the night sky. She felt the force of her bodyweight erupting through her knees as she leaped over the blood-covered alleyway three stories below. Her violet eyes were set intently on the ridge of the roof that she was quickly closing in on. She managed to latch on with her hands before she crashed into the dilapidated residence's rough walls with the force of her jump. All air surged out of her lungs and her fingers slowly slid from their sturdy grip. A violent shout from below woke her from her temporary paralysis, and she scrambled her small feet against the structure's stonework to pull herself up to the safety of the roof. A badly aimed, empty bottle exploded into malicious glass sharpnel three yards to her left, encouraging her to speed up her ascent.

After what seemed like an eternity, she rolled onto the roof, her entire body burning with strain, and her features teary. She looked around for the Half-Orc that had traversed the aerial path before her, but moving her body was fairly difficult, and she could not bear to stand on her feet so soon after the physical exertion of being slammed against a stone wall. Therefore, she looked back into the slight luminance that radiated from the broken window of the Drital Qu'ellar, sadly recognizing the shade that adamantly faced the corridor, sword stoically drawn. Idiot, she couldn't help thinking in her mind.

It was with a profound sense of relief that Wurzag found his hands closing around the wooden eaves. A moment later the rest of his considerable bulk followed and crashed heavily into the wall below, further battering his already badly abused frame. He hung there for several moments gulping the cold night air and then attempted to pull himself up on to the roof-top. Every joint and muscle shrieked in protest and after a long, torturous few seconds he was forced to sag in defeat; he simply did not have enough strength left to haul himself up by main force alone. He also knew that he could not hang there forever, sooner or later he would loose his grip and gravity would have its wicked way.

His choices were taken away from him abruptly however when the roof shingles within his grasp broke under his weight. Then he began to slide down the gently angled slope, slowly at first but with increasing speed. In his wake a cascade of slate rained down on the combatants beneath accompanied by a colourful array of insults and curses. A few broken shards were hurled back, but they were badly aimed and could not hope to strike the sliding half-orc.

As amusing as the downward journey was, Wurzag had almost run out of roof and in a few moments would be dumped unceremoniously off the edge of the building and into the street. The enthusiastic sounds of battle from below were not something he was eager to join, particularly after a drop from the third floor.

With a violent wrench he was able to swing his legs up over the shallow angle of the roof and plant his feet as well as his hands on the tiles in a desperate attempt to arrest his downward momentum. With no more than twelve inches of shingle remaining, Wurzag finally came to a halt in an avalanche of broken slate. Then he lay still, lungs labouring, hands cut and bleeding, but otherwise still alive. With a groan he raised his head in time to see the young entertainer make the same leap he had undertaken, only she did so with a great deal more grace.

With the chill of the night starting to seep into his limbs Wurzag began the arduous task of climbing back to where she lay. With his rage spent, and adrenaline rapidly draining from his system, it was only a matter of time before injury, exertion and blood loss took their toll. When that happened he needed to be elsewhere, but they were far from free yet and needed to put some distance between themselves and the pub.

After an ascent that felt like an age, the battered half-orc managed to pull himself upright beside the woman and looked down at her prostrate form through his one good eye. "Come on," he rumbled tiredly, "lets get da fug out ov 'ere!" A quick scan of the surroundings revealed the safest route of egress toward the square. Wurzag set off at a slow jog that he hoped would allow the woman to keep up.

"If weez can get to da square den it will be safe," he growled back at her, "too many guards an fings dere fer 'em to follow." And hopefully there would be a drink and a place to sleep, though right at that particular moment Wurzag would have settled for nothing more than a little peace and quiet. He jogged on into the night and hoped Taryn still had his room at the Wilwarin and was sober enough to receive guests.

Lyon stood, his body tensed, his sword raised. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as the young performer gracefully leaped across the gap between the buildings, and though the rough impact against the wall looked a little painful, she successfully managed to climb onto the roof. The half-orc went to her side, and took all attention away from them, knowing that the girl would be fine. He focused all of his senses instead towards the end of the hall.

The thugs most certainly had not wasted time. Lyon turned just in time to see one of their ugly heads pop out of the stairwell. The man, who was wielding a club, upon seeing Lyon hesitated, and gave a nervous look downstairs. Lyon motioned with his sword, and with a smile, he said, “Hi there. Not a good day to die, you know? You should think about it.” The thug seemed to be considering it, when a shout from below instantly set him to motion.

“Kill them! Capture them! Bring them to me, if you want to see another day!” The harsh orders of the robed man seemed to spur the brute onward, and Lyon ducked just in time as the blunt weapon was swung at his face. The man was now too close for the mercenary to use his sword, and Lyon mentally cursed himself for never buying a dagger. Instead, he used his legs as a spring to put more force behind the rough tackle that he performed on the man. The two feel backward, with Lyon on top.

The two fighters wrestled for control for a few moments, when finally Lyon ripped the club from his foe’s hand as his grip loosened on it. He knocked the bandit soundly on the side of the head with it, and the man struggled no more.

As he stood up, getting a proper grip on his sword, he suddenly heard a whistling sound, and something struck him in the shoulder. It seemed that while he had been wrestling with his previous opponent, another man had come into the fray from the stairs, this one also wielding a club. Lyon groaned as his shoulder ached from the forcible blow, but was glad that his sword arm had not been hit. However, he did not have time to contemplate this, as his new enemy made a wild swing at his stomach, and Lyon dove away before he could be hit. The club continued its motion, and splinters flew from it and the wall as it smashed into the wooden barrier.

Lyon quickly swung sideways with his blade as the man recovered himself after the attack, and the stroke made its mark. The thug feel screaming as the sharp edge cut into his side, and he twitched in pain on the ground, clutching the formidable cut that had been inflicted upon his body. If it was treated quickly, it may not be deadly, but he certainly would have difficulty with fighting.

Lyon did not have much time to feel triumphant, however, as two more of his enemies emerged from the stairs. One of them, upon seeing the mercenary, shouted downstairs.

“He’s up here, one of them is still here!” Lyon felt that man’s horrible presence rising up through the floorboards, causing Lyon’s mind to be muddled as the enigmatic man’s fear spell took hold of his mind yet again. Revulsion and panic began to take control again, and before the two bandits, who seemed to be waiting for their leader, could come after him, he turned, and sheathing his sword, he ran towards the open window.

Upon reaching the edge, he put all the force he could into his legs, and jumped, eyes locked on the roof wasn’t that far from him, but seemed in his head to be miles away, thanks to the fear that was controlling him. Like the other two, he slammed against the edge as his hands grabbed hold of something solid, and felt a large amount of pain in his aching shoulder as it was strained from the exertion. Grunting and groaning, he pulled himself up into a better position, with his feet planted firmly on the shingle. He took a second to get his bearings, looking around in the night, spotting the fighting in the streets below, which he had escaped from not too long ago, only to find himself in a bigger battle. He had been fortunate enough to not receive wounds as bad as the half-orc’s, but he was still aching pretty bad.

Suddenly, as he stood there, he felt a gaze burning into his back, and looking behind him, he saw the robed man staring at him, searching his face, memorizing every detail about him. Lyon stood there for several seconds, staring back at him, rooted to the spot. He understood quite clearly what the man meant by this. He was saying without words, I’ll find you… .

Lyon turned and ran after the others. He caught up to the two as they were walking at a quick pace towards the square. Though he was disturbed by what had just happened, he tried to act as though nothing was wrong. “Hi guys,” he said, smiling, as he fell in step behind them. “You miss me?” He said this more to the woman, seeing as how he doubted the half-orc had exactly been anxiously awaiting his reappearance. With a glance at the girl, remembering what she had said to him before she had jumped out the window, he added, "By the way, my name is Lyon." Not waiting for a reply, for he was sure that everyone was a bit tired, he motioned towards the square and said, “Well, as fun as this night has been, I guess it’s high time we got out of here.” He continued on with them, all walking towards the open area, and hopefully towards safety and rest.

The bleak chill of the Lómëdorian night dribbled past Carlyssa's pale cheeks as she strove to keep up with the Half-Orc. Seeing how she required two steps to cover the distance that he did in a single pace, her strained body quickly began ushering burning complaints through muscle and sinew. Still, she kept up quite well, encouraged both by the slowly fading noise of battle behind them and the thought of how badly wounded the fighter leading her on actually was. Even in the feeble starlight, she could see that his tread was weary and forced, his speed spurred solely by the need to escape, to survive. Although her stamina could by no means be compared to that of an experienced warrior's, Carlyssa felt ashamed that she, who'd seen the least hardship of all tonight, would be the one to slow them down.

The pattering of another pair of boots behind her broke through the tranquil buzz that had plagued her ears ever since the nightmare had started. Anxious itchiness rose through her stomach at first - had some thugs decided to pursue them, despite the prospect of the guard-filled square they were rapidly approaching? The thought of breaking into a true sprint suddenly seemed very tempting. Before she could act on the impulse, however, a familiar voice appeased her admonishing senses, and although many of the roof tiles were uneven in this poor district of the city, the young artist spared a glance over her shoulder at the mercenary that had finally caught up with them. He, too, appeared battered and fatigued, and his voice had lost much of the jovial jeering he'd displayed at the start of the brawl. Instead, the tones were pervaded with grimace-like sarcasm: genuine, but bitter about what had transpired moments before.

"My name's Carlyssa," she stated in turn, pleased that the mercenary had remembered what she'd asked of him in the inn. "Wish we could have met in more... agreeable circumstances," she added with a smirk, but she did not enrich her introduction with the usual details. She was tired, the Half-Orc and man that had saved her were probably strained beyond imagination, and such niceties were better exchanged in a warm room without pain or tension. She looked at the Half-Orc running in front of them, wondering what his name and his story would be. She'd talk to him later, as well. For now, the giant seemed to have a very good idea of where he was going, and Carlyssa's state of body and mind allowed for little else than mindlessly following him there.

She smiled as they exited the danger zone, into guard-controlled territory, their pace slowing down somewhat. Her violet gaze shifted swiftly between the battered savage and the injured merc. Those wounds would have to be taken care of. Now there was something she could help with.

OOC: Thanks for the lovely thread, I hope to see you in the next, somewhat more plot-driven one! ^_^