Home away from home. Darktown signified many things to Sparrow, all of which were positive – it was a welcome sanctuary, her personal hidey-hole, and possibly the only place in Kirkwall she felt completely safe. It was a welcome incongruous repartee, truly ironic. In more ways then one, it's downright filthy. The streets were paved with violence, leading into dark corners filled with grubby-fingered, greedy-eyed men and women who'd just love to make a meal out of you, figuratively, and perhaps, more literally. All the world's scrubbing would not clean it's avenues of filth, of corruption, of poverty. It hung in the air like a heavy blanket. Hardly-stable establishments jostled their elbows against brick walls and discarded rubbish, sheltering knock-toothed orphans underneath canvas tarps and sewn cloaks. Everything leans inwards, as if trying to support itself on something else. There's something that can be said about Darktown, there's no emptiness, no place that hasn't already been occupied by someone else; every inch of the street, of the ramshackle buildings, of the alleys, is filled. They each had interesting stories. She thanked her lucky stars for this place.
Idunna spoke the truth about the location of her group's sanctuary. The door was nondescript, what appeared to be an entrance to a hovel like any of the others in Darktown, the amulet she spoke of the only thing setting it apart. The trinket itself was covered in dirt, but still recognizable. It seemed likely that there was some kind of spell cast on the amulet, perhaps to make those not searching for it to simply not see it, as such a thing would no doubt be stolen rather quickly in a place like Darktown, where even the slightest amount of personal possessions were considered luxuries.
The group passed through the door unchallenged, and laid their eyes upon a normal looking hovel, a makeshift shelter with only the barest amount of furniture. There was a trap door, however, in a corner of the room, and voices could faintly be heard from beyond, though it could have simply been passerby from outside the hovel. What they perhaps wouldn't see, however, was the pressure plate buried just under the dirt in front of the trap door, something only the keenest of eyes would pick up upon.
The trip into the slums of Darktown were relatively uneventful. Of course, Ashton witnessed a mugging or two-- but that happened every day or so, so it really wasn't that much of a surprise. He couldn't help but pity those who had to suffer though the day-to-day in that pit of hell. A lot of refugees from Feralden inhabited Darktown, and it only reminded him how lucky he was that he had managed to snatch a shop in Lowtown, where the muggings weren't as common. Once inside the hovel, Ashton went ahead and strung his bow and had it at the ready. For once, they knew what they were getting themselves into. There would be little if no surprises this time, like a Templar going demon, or a whore being a blood mage. No, this time they were after maleficarum.
As his companions moved forward, he reached out and hooked Sparrow's neck with the bow, reeling her in like a fisherman would a fish. "Easy, Sparrow sweetheart" he murmured. His eyes weren't on her, but on the ground in front of her. Something in those eyes had hardened to fit the seriousness of the situation. He released Sparrow from his bow and then took the steps forward himself, before kneeling "They've got traps set up.." He said, gingerly brushing the dirt off of the plate. "Shoddy traps, the plate's raised up too high from the surrounding ground. It would fool ordinary people," He said, throwing a grin back to Sparrow and Rilien, "But not the best hunter in Kirkwall." He said, rising and stepping over the trap. "Careful. I don't want to figure out what any of these traps do. Probably end up with a Shade or two up our asses."
Sparrow eyeballed the plain door critically, smoothing her fingertips across the knotted wood as if it would somehow tell her it's history, or it's inhabitant's. She was the first to move forward, pushing the door slowly, while peering inside, before crossing it's threshold. Her stunted ears twitched. She swore she could hear voices further in. The voices sounded shallow, hushed, and slightly hasty. These voices promised secrets. Her dancing eyes – so usually trained to detect traps, treasures, and tomfoolery alike – were solely focused on the next door, and what it held inside. With the exuberance of a leg-swinging child, Sparrow's footsteps bounced across the cracked rocks, hardly considering what she was getting her, and her companions, into. She wasn't exactly known for her caution. Then, the half-breed jerked backwards, huffing like a dog who'd just abruptly found that it's leash only went so far. Her fingers immediately flew to the bow wrapped around neck, slipping underneath it to regain her composure. Though she was already backtracking towards Ashton, and soon after, released. “Whu—” Sparrow began to say, shuffling her feet awkwardly, and following Ashton's line of sight to a small pile of dirt, shoddily scuffled around the presumed trap. It was a raised plate – and one that she would've missed if it hadn't been for her companion. How hadn't she noticed, again? “How can I ever thank you, oh, greatest hunter of Kirkwall? Might'n I buy you a lovely dance after all this.”
Then, Sparrow gracefully stepped over the elevated plate, quickly moving ahead of Ashton. Too late. She'd noticed the second trap only as her foot was descending – it seemed like it took forever to actually press down, to actually apply weight to the plate. Her foot fell in slow motion, stepping into the emplacement on the ground. From the looks of it, it wasn't very well made, either. The dirt around it was lazily chuffed around. Though, they'd at least placed the damn thing on more even ground. To her credit, it was a little less noticeable. Of all the times not to listen to Ashton, this was the worst. Her eyes widened, two pinpricks of light reflecting against the backdrop of her pupils.
Ashton could do nothing but level a dull glare on Sparrow. Of course. Why did he even dare to expect any different?
She glanced back apologetically, though some would've thought she was secretly pleased with the current prospect of bloodying her flanged mace. "They can't say I don't show a lady a good time." It might've been the Qunari in her – the mysterious facet within her that roared in defiance, expressing that this is how it was meant to be, so it must be. Her leather boot immediately extracted itself from the compressed plate, far more quickly then she'd actually stepped on it. It was baffling.
The muted click of a mechanism locking into place reached his ears, and Rilien blinked. More the fools he and Ashton, for assuming that a mere warning would make Sparrow sufficiently cautious. She was many things, and he found but few of them unpleasant, but discretion had never been her stong suit. If one needed a hammer, a blunt mallet to swing at a problem and crack through it with force alone, she was better than anyone he knew. Finesse, though... finesse was assuredly his area, and he exhaled quietly, the merest of sighs. He'd still never think less of her for it.
The trap seemed to do little, at first, but his ears tracked the sounds of shuffling a distance further off, beyond the door, and he decided that they'd just warned the blood mages of their approach. It seemed indeed a suspicion confirmed, when he also heard (and felt) the rise of demons and shades aplenty back there, and Rilien's knives rang free of their sheaths before another second passed. "A blood mage that summons demons... how novel." There would be absolutely no mistaking him for serious when he said that, but as the only people around to hear were Sparrow and Ashton, he didn't mind. Sparrow would never give up his identity, and he supposed that if Ashton tried, he'd be thought a liar. Why believe a lowtown rogue rather than the obvious brand on his forehead. But no, really, he tells jokes! Hardly.
Ashton raised his eyebrow from the surprising burst of sarcasm from the Trainquil and then curiously tilted his head like a puppy would. He then gave the Tranquil an applause with an approving nod. "I know right. If only they'd summon other things. Nicer things. Cuter things... Like kittens. How could you hate a mage who summons kittens?" Ashton rambled, but shut his trap as Rilien approached the door. Now was serious time.
Advancing towards the door, he waited until both of his companions indicated that they were ready, then shouldered it open, stepping through soundlessly, which was useless considering that every eye in the room rested on the three of them. Nothing was attacking... yet.
The room wasn't particularly large, but it did consist of lower and upper sections, and looked to be perhaps a meeting place, where a speaker could hold a group's attention from a raised platform at the end of the room. The blood mages were currently in this position, guarded by what was perhaps an eight foot elevation and a railing on top of that, the stairs on the left that led up to them currently blocked by a group of four shades.
The blood mages themselves, four in number, were all hooded and masked, though only one of them was female, and it could be assumed that this was the Tarohne that Idunna had spoken of. Their staves looked to be of Circle-make; no doubt they had fled from one Circle or another before seeking revenge against those they saw as their jailors. At their side they had summoned a desire demon, her hands bristling with entropic energy, preparing a first spell. "Kill them," the woman commanded, "they will not make for suitable vessels."
Perhaps what was most interesting was the human form floating in the back of the room, behind the mages, seemingly caged by some kind of magic that was creating a golden aura around him. He was a young, strong man, but looked significantly worse off in his current state, stripped down to his underwear and covered in bruises and cuts. They wouldn't have much time to think about it, however, as the shades moved forward to attack, two more assuming their place at the foot of the stairs, while the desire demon and the blood mages launched their first spells from their elevated and protected position.
Rilien's mentality, devoid of things like delay for surprise, presented to him immediately several logical solutions to their predicament, but he was nobody's commander, and so he said nothing. Zipping forward, he veered to the right even as a fireball crashed into the wall behind him. He'd have been obliterated if he remained still, and it was obvious that diplomacy was not an option here. He couldn't be sure, but he might actually like it better that way. Conversations tended to produce multiple possibilities, ones that he had to weigh against each other with probabilities and behaviour patterns and observation. Interesting, sometimes, but also often tedious. A fight was simple: kill until nothing but you and yours remained standing.
An elegantly-simple directive. Darting between two of the four shades, he flipped his knives so that they lay back against the outside of his forearms, edge out, and in this manner sliced the arm of one and the abdomen of the other on his way past. This drew the attention of the two, and caused them to leave the cluster. Before they had much chance to do anything else, however, he disappeared, reappearing behind the first and stabbing with his left-hand knife. The right-hand one, still laid for maximum leverage against his arm, blocked an incoming strike from the one with the gimped arm, biting into its good hand. Drawing the other knife out of its flesh-sheath, he kicked that shade away, sending it forward perhaps a bit more than it would have intended and whipped the newly-freed knife across the throat of the other, dropping it in the time it took its partner to turn around.
What should have been a rather simple manoeuvre to dispatch his remaining shade was interrupted when his muscles locked up, freezing him in place. A glance to the mages atop the platform revealed the likely culprit: the female blood mage had sliced into herself and was presently holding her hands outward, fingers hooked into claws, clearly struggling to puppet the Tranquil's body. Rilien jerked forward most ungracefully, as though pulled forward by something in the center of his chest cavity. He registered that he was in pain, but discarded the sense-data as irrelevant. Even if this mage was unable to control him fully, she was still making it incredibly difficult for the elf to move, and the second shade was approaching fast. His breath hissed between his teeth in a frustrated exhalation, and Rilien flexed his grip on one of his knives. It would do.
He relaxed, causing the mage to overcompensate and hurl him towards the shade with too much speed. They were bound to collide, and Rilien counted on it, focusing all his effort on angling his right-handed dagger just so. As expected, he smacked bodily into the creature, and his blade slid into its heart like a hot knife through butter. Apparently spent, the mage's hold on him slackened, and the Tranquil stood with much more dignity, eyeing the woman with something oddly approaching hostility. He did not, as a rule, enjoy killing, but he knew how to make a death very slow indeed.
With a battle cry, Sparrow unleashed her flanged mace from her hip, whirling it in a lazy circle, before slicing through shadow stuff in wild arcs. Undistinguished black ink sloughed through the air, spattering the walls in what she could only assume was the shades blood, or gooey body parts. Several noises assaulted her – from the grating shrieks of shades dragging themselves from the cobblestones, branch-like fingers clutching the lip of whatever abyss they'd come from, and the irritating squeals coming from the dying, banished back into whatever realm they belonged. She did not fear shadows, even as they whispered pleasantly between their orchestra of squawks. It was the Fade-promises that called to her, willing her to lay down her weapons and simply allow them to rake their ephemeral claws across her face. The devilish spirits descended on her in droves, as she willingly stepped forward but she preferred it that way, it was her fighting style; more for her to hack and bludgeon, and more freedom for her friends who were undoubtedly dealing with their own pair of nasties.
"What, no pillow talk first?" Ashton mumbled. Despite his enthusiatic upbeat nature, all of the recent blood magic and subsequent demons trying to kill him seemed to begin to wear at the silly Archer. He was sick of all of the mages playing with the very fabric of nature like a cat would a ball of yarn. Making just as big of a mess as one too. One that somehow he'd ended up having to clean. His eyes, once bright with boundless humor, once again sharpened into the hunter's gleam. Just a couple more nasties and the day would be won, they could deliver the boy-- or news of the boy-- to his sister, the he forget about the blood mage business. Finally, then he could go bury his face in a bottle of something with a kick.
But first thing was first. The nasties sitting in front of him. Without a word of encouragement or direction (not that he expected one from the Tranquil) Rilien darted off with the guile of the aforementioned cat and likewise Ashton too departed from the targeted area. The racket of a fireball colliding with something filled his ears, though he was grateful that he wasn't that something. While Rilien darted to the left and engaged two of the four shades near the stairs, he took off to the right, hoping to divide and conquer the mages. Ashton grabbed a handful of arrows out of his quiver and nocking all of them simultaneously. Pulling back the mass of arrows he aimed up and gauged the angle at which to fire. With his mind now firmly in the hunt instead of finding a joke to crack or a pun to make, the calculation was easy thanks to the allocation of more of his grey matter. He drew back and released, causing a hail of arrows to fall from the skies and rain down upon those who stood on the platform.
The arrows would be only mere annoyances as they lost most of their power during the ascent, but he hoped that the act would draw attention away from the quickly approaching Tranquil rogue and if he was extremely lucky, would cause the mages to vacate the platform entirely. He drew his next arrow and kept light on his feet in case the need arose for either quick footwork, or quick fingers.
Sparrow took a deep breath, allowing the power of the magic to flow through her body. Her fatigue stretched, moulding itself into energy. It flowed outward like a channel, swirling through her veins and wiggling out her fingertips like a pleasant shudder. She could feel its tingling in her mind, and her heart soared at the pleasure it bestowed – something like heavy-petting, or a particularly good kiss. Sometimes, Sparrow agreed that it was no wonder that some mages fell into the abomination category, voluntarily accepting a demon's heady promises because it felt like the Fade, the magic, and everything it entailed, would simply carry you away to paradise. It was a sickness. Her hands twisted in the air, casting quickly, and soon enough Ashton's many arrows were engulfed in flames as they pelted the platform. Instead of lobbing arcane bolts at the remaining blood mages, Sparrow stepped underneath the platform and swung her mace, striking the wooden stilt until it splintered and shook. She struck it again, and again, until the damned thing buckled and tipped precariously forward. If the mages didn't want to become living pincushions, or fall flat on their faces, they'd be forced to move away.
Idunna spoke the truth about the location of her group's sanctuary. The door was nondescript, what appeared to be an entrance to a hovel like any of the others in Darktown, the amulet she spoke of the only thing setting it apart. The trinket itself was covered in dirt, but still recognizable. It seemed likely that there was some kind of spell cast on the amulet, perhaps to make those not searching for it to simply not see it, as such a thing would no doubt be stolen rather quickly in a place like Darktown, where even the slightest amount of personal possessions were considered luxuries.
The group passed through the door unchallenged, and laid their eyes upon a normal looking hovel, a makeshift shelter with only the barest amount of furniture. There was a trap door, however, in a corner of the room, and voices could faintly be heard from beyond, though it could have simply been passerby from outside the hovel. What they perhaps wouldn't see, however, was the pressure plate buried just under the dirt in front of the trap door, something only the keenest of eyes would pick up upon.
The trip into the slums of Darktown were relatively uneventful. Of course, Ashton witnessed a mugging or two-- but that happened every day or so, so it really wasn't that much of a surprise. He couldn't help but pity those who had to suffer though the day-to-day in that pit of hell. A lot of refugees from Feralden inhabited Darktown, and it only reminded him how lucky he was that he had managed to snatch a shop in Lowtown, where the muggings weren't as common. Once inside the hovel, Ashton went ahead and strung his bow and had it at the ready. For once, they knew what they were getting themselves into. There would be little if no surprises this time, like a Templar going demon, or a whore being a blood mage. No, this time they were after maleficarum.
As his companions moved forward, he reached out and hooked Sparrow's neck with the bow, reeling her in like a fisherman would a fish. "Easy, Sparrow sweetheart" he murmured. His eyes weren't on her, but on the ground in front of her. Something in those eyes had hardened to fit the seriousness of the situation. He released Sparrow from his bow and then took the steps forward himself, before kneeling "They've got traps set up.." He said, gingerly brushing the dirt off of the plate. "Shoddy traps, the plate's raised up too high from the surrounding ground. It would fool ordinary people," He said, throwing a grin back to Sparrow and Rilien, "But not the best hunter in Kirkwall." He said, rising and stepping over the trap. "Careful. I don't want to figure out what any of these traps do. Probably end up with a Shade or two up our asses."
Sparrow eyeballed the plain door critically, smoothing her fingertips across the knotted wood as if it would somehow tell her it's history, or it's inhabitant's. She was the first to move forward, pushing the door slowly, while peering inside, before crossing it's threshold. Her stunted ears twitched. She swore she could hear voices further in. The voices sounded shallow, hushed, and slightly hasty. These voices promised secrets. Her dancing eyes – so usually trained to detect traps, treasures, and tomfoolery alike – were solely focused on the next door, and what it held inside. With the exuberance of a leg-swinging child, Sparrow's footsteps bounced across the cracked rocks, hardly considering what she was getting her, and her companions, into. She wasn't exactly known for her caution. Then, the half-breed jerked backwards, huffing like a dog who'd just abruptly found that it's leash only went so far. Her fingers immediately flew to the bow wrapped around neck, slipping underneath it to regain her composure. Though she was already backtracking towards Ashton, and soon after, released. “Whu—” Sparrow began to say, shuffling her feet awkwardly, and following Ashton's line of sight to a small pile of dirt, shoddily scuffled around the presumed trap. It was a raised plate – and one that she would've missed if it hadn't been for her companion. How hadn't she noticed, again? “How can I ever thank you, oh, greatest hunter of Kirkwall? Might'n I buy you a lovely dance after all this.”
Then, Sparrow gracefully stepped over the elevated plate, quickly moving ahead of Ashton. Too late. She'd noticed the second trap only as her foot was descending – it seemed like it took forever to actually press down, to actually apply weight to the plate. Her foot fell in slow motion, stepping into the emplacement on the ground. From the looks of it, it wasn't very well made, either. The dirt around it was lazily chuffed around. Though, they'd at least placed the damn thing on more even ground. To her credit, it was a little less noticeable. Of all the times not to listen to Ashton, this was the worst. Her eyes widened, two pinpricks of light reflecting against the backdrop of her pupils.
Ashton could do nothing but level a dull glare on Sparrow. Of course. Why did he even dare to expect any different?
She glanced back apologetically, though some would've thought she was secretly pleased with the current prospect of bloodying her flanged mace. "They can't say I don't show a lady a good time." It might've been the Qunari in her – the mysterious facet within her that roared in defiance, expressing that this is how it was meant to be, so it must be. Her leather boot immediately extracted itself from the compressed plate, far more quickly then she'd actually stepped on it. It was baffling.
The muted click of a mechanism locking into place reached his ears, and Rilien blinked. More the fools he and Ashton, for assuming that a mere warning would make Sparrow sufficiently cautious. She was many things, and he found but few of them unpleasant, but discretion had never been her stong suit. If one needed a hammer, a blunt mallet to swing at a problem and crack through it with force alone, she was better than anyone he knew. Finesse, though... finesse was assuredly his area, and he exhaled quietly, the merest of sighs. He'd still never think less of her for it.
The trap seemed to do little, at first, but his ears tracked the sounds of shuffling a distance further off, beyond the door, and he decided that they'd just warned the blood mages of their approach. It seemed indeed a suspicion confirmed, when he also heard (and felt) the rise of demons and shades aplenty back there, and Rilien's knives rang free of their sheaths before another second passed. "A blood mage that summons demons... how novel." There would be absolutely no mistaking him for serious when he said that, but as the only people around to hear were Sparrow and Ashton, he didn't mind. Sparrow would never give up his identity, and he supposed that if Ashton tried, he'd be thought a liar. Why believe a lowtown rogue rather than the obvious brand on his forehead. But no, really, he tells jokes! Hardly.
Ashton raised his eyebrow from the surprising burst of sarcasm from the Trainquil and then curiously tilted his head like a puppy would. He then gave the Tranquil an applause with an approving nod. "I know right. If only they'd summon other things. Nicer things. Cuter things... Like kittens. How could you hate a mage who summons kittens?" Ashton rambled, but shut his trap as Rilien approached the door. Now was serious time.
Advancing towards the door, he waited until both of his companions indicated that they were ready, then shouldered it open, stepping through soundlessly, which was useless considering that every eye in the room rested on the three of them. Nothing was attacking... yet.
The room wasn't particularly large, but it did consist of lower and upper sections, and looked to be perhaps a meeting place, where a speaker could hold a group's attention from a raised platform at the end of the room. The blood mages were currently in this position, guarded by what was perhaps an eight foot elevation and a railing on top of that, the stairs on the left that led up to them currently blocked by a group of four shades.
The blood mages themselves, four in number, were all hooded and masked, though only one of them was female, and it could be assumed that this was the Tarohne that Idunna had spoken of. Their staves looked to be of Circle-make; no doubt they had fled from one Circle or another before seeking revenge against those they saw as their jailors. At their side they had summoned a desire demon, her hands bristling with entropic energy, preparing a first spell. "Kill them," the woman commanded, "they will not make for suitable vessels."
Perhaps what was most interesting was the human form floating in the back of the room, behind the mages, seemingly caged by some kind of magic that was creating a golden aura around him. He was a young, strong man, but looked significantly worse off in his current state, stripped down to his underwear and covered in bruises and cuts. They wouldn't have much time to think about it, however, as the shades moved forward to attack, two more assuming their place at the foot of the stairs, while the desire demon and the blood mages launched their first spells from their elevated and protected position.
Rilien's mentality, devoid of things like delay for surprise, presented to him immediately several logical solutions to their predicament, but he was nobody's commander, and so he said nothing. Zipping forward, he veered to the right even as a fireball crashed into the wall behind him. He'd have been obliterated if he remained still, and it was obvious that diplomacy was not an option here. He couldn't be sure, but he might actually like it better that way. Conversations tended to produce multiple possibilities, ones that he had to weigh against each other with probabilities and behaviour patterns and observation. Interesting, sometimes, but also often tedious. A fight was simple: kill until nothing but you and yours remained standing.
An elegantly-simple directive. Darting between two of the four shades, he flipped his knives so that they lay back against the outside of his forearms, edge out, and in this manner sliced the arm of one and the abdomen of the other on his way past. This drew the attention of the two, and caused them to leave the cluster. Before they had much chance to do anything else, however, he disappeared, reappearing behind the first and stabbing with his left-hand knife. The right-hand one, still laid for maximum leverage against his arm, blocked an incoming strike from the one with the gimped arm, biting into its good hand. Drawing the other knife out of its flesh-sheath, he kicked that shade away, sending it forward perhaps a bit more than it would have intended and whipped the newly-freed knife across the throat of the other, dropping it in the time it took its partner to turn around.
What should have been a rather simple manoeuvre to dispatch his remaining shade was interrupted when his muscles locked up, freezing him in place. A glance to the mages atop the platform revealed the likely culprit: the female blood mage had sliced into herself and was presently holding her hands outward, fingers hooked into claws, clearly struggling to puppet the Tranquil's body. Rilien jerked forward most ungracefully, as though pulled forward by something in the center of his chest cavity. He registered that he was in pain, but discarded the sense-data as irrelevant. Even if this mage was unable to control him fully, she was still making it incredibly difficult for the elf to move, and the second shade was approaching fast. His breath hissed between his teeth in a frustrated exhalation, and Rilien flexed his grip on one of his knives. It would do.
He relaxed, causing the mage to overcompensate and hurl him towards the shade with too much speed. They were bound to collide, and Rilien counted on it, focusing all his effort on angling his right-handed dagger just so. As expected, he smacked bodily into the creature, and his blade slid into its heart like a hot knife through butter. Apparently spent, the mage's hold on him slackened, and the Tranquil stood with much more dignity, eyeing the woman with something oddly approaching hostility. He did not, as a rule, enjoy killing, but he knew how to make a death very slow indeed.
With a battle cry, Sparrow unleashed her flanged mace from her hip, whirling it in a lazy circle, before slicing through shadow stuff in wild arcs. Undistinguished black ink sloughed through the air, spattering the walls in what she could only assume was the shades blood, or gooey body parts. Several noises assaulted her – from the grating shrieks of shades dragging themselves from the cobblestones, branch-like fingers clutching the lip of whatever abyss they'd come from, and the irritating squeals coming from the dying, banished back into whatever realm they belonged. She did not fear shadows, even as they whispered pleasantly between their orchestra of squawks. It was the Fade-promises that called to her, willing her to lay down her weapons and simply allow them to rake their ephemeral claws across her face. The devilish spirits descended on her in droves, as she willingly stepped forward but she preferred it that way, it was her fighting style; more for her to hack and bludgeon, and more freedom for her friends who were undoubtedly dealing with their own pair of nasties.
"What, no pillow talk first?" Ashton mumbled. Despite his enthusiatic upbeat nature, all of the recent blood magic and subsequent demons trying to kill him seemed to begin to wear at the silly Archer. He was sick of all of the mages playing with the very fabric of nature like a cat would a ball of yarn. Making just as big of a mess as one too. One that somehow he'd ended up having to clean. His eyes, once bright with boundless humor, once again sharpened into the hunter's gleam. Just a couple more nasties and the day would be won, they could deliver the boy-- or news of the boy-- to his sister, the he forget about the blood mage business. Finally, then he could go bury his face in a bottle of something with a kick.
But first thing was first. The nasties sitting in front of him. Without a word of encouragement or direction (not that he expected one from the Tranquil) Rilien darted off with the guile of the aforementioned cat and likewise Ashton too departed from the targeted area. The racket of a fireball colliding with something filled his ears, though he was grateful that he wasn't that something. While Rilien darted to the left and engaged two of the four shades near the stairs, he took off to the right, hoping to divide and conquer the mages. Ashton grabbed a handful of arrows out of his quiver and nocking all of them simultaneously. Pulling back the mass of arrows he aimed up and gauged the angle at which to fire. With his mind now firmly in the hunt instead of finding a joke to crack or a pun to make, the calculation was easy thanks to the allocation of more of his grey matter. He drew back and released, causing a hail of arrows to fall from the skies and rain down upon those who stood on the platform.
The arrows would be only mere annoyances as they lost most of their power during the ascent, but he hoped that the act would draw attention away from the quickly approaching Tranquil rogue and if he was extremely lucky, would cause the mages to vacate the platform entirely. He drew his next arrow and kept light on his feet in case the need arose for either quick footwork, or quick fingers.
Sparrow took a deep breath, allowing the power of the magic to flow through her body. Her fatigue stretched, moulding itself into energy. It flowed outward like a channel, swirling through her veins and wiggling out her fingertips like a pleasant shudder. She could feel its tingling in her mind, and her heart soared at the pleasure it bestowed – something like heavy-petting, or a particularly good kiss. Sometimes, Sparrow agreed that it was no wonder that some mages fell into the abomination category, voluntarily accepting a demon's heady promises because it felt like the Fade, the magic, and everything it entailed, would simply carry you away to paradise. It was a sickness. Her hands twisted in the air, casting quickly, and soon enough Ashton's many arrows were engulfed in flames as they pelted the platform. Instead of lobbing arcane bolts at the remaining blood mages, Sparrow stepped underneath the platform and swung her mace, striking the wooden stilt until it splintered and shook. She struck it again, and again, until the damned thing buckled and tipped precariously forward. If the mages didn't want to become living pincushions, or fall flat on their faces, they'd be forced to move away.