Antal smirks and points at the monkey, mumbling in an archaic Halfling tongue.
The big baboon howls in pain as it is bitten by the dog, then collapses in a heap after Njord slices open its stomach.
Antal will tap his crazy, crossbow-wielding friend, giving her a bit of divine aid.
The man in the grease attempts to flee again... and falls to the ground, now covered almost from head to toe in slippery grease.
As he falls, he strikes out angrily at the halfling next to him.
Lymas glares at the invaders of his home, then fires a bolt at the newest one.
Antal takes a step forward and issues a curse against the foolish man in front of them.
The man lying in the grease cries out as he nearly loses an arm from Njord's attack, and stares at the masked halfling with wide eyes. The older man narrows his eyes at the elf and points one bony finger, too.
Fíriel drops her bow and pulls a dagger, hopping across the greased floor with ease, and tries to stab the man on the ground.
Randall attempts to get the lock open.
The man on the ground seems to regain his senses somewhat. He glares at his attackers and swings his club at the big man.
The older man levels his crossbow again and fires at the halfling closest to him.
Not exactly eager to murder these men, Njord grabs the prone man by the shoulders and delivers a crushing headbutt.
The prone, grease-covered clubman goes limp from Njord's punch.
Jametor fires another acid glob at the crossbow wielding Lymas.
Randall opens the door, drawing a fresh glare from Lymas. The older man steps back and fires his crossbow again.
He aims too high, and the bolt thuds harmlessly into the wall behind Fíriel's head.
Moving through the grease spell, Jametor then takes out some blue sand and throws it at Lymas, while calling out the command words for Color Spray.
Lymas shakes off the magic.
Jametor gets a confused look on his face when Lymas shakes off the spell.
Not trusting himself to get across the patch of conjured grease, Njord pulls another vial and pours the contents into the worst of his bites.
"Har! Jametor can you do something about yer mess?"
"Um..maybe.
Randall opens the door, a sheepish look on his face to see Firiel grinning at him.
"You know, we weren't coming here to hurt anyone. We just came to ask some questions."
"Oh sure, so you break into my bleeding home and murder my friend when he tries to defend me! Zon-Kuthon take you, you filthy scumbag!"
Antal looks at Jametor, waiting for the elf to clean up his mess.
Lymas roars as he's stabbed in the back, whirling around and dropping his crossbow. In a moment his hand holds a glittering scimitar, which he swings powerfully at the halfling that hurt him, before stepping out of the flank.
Jametor dismisses his grease spell, having served it's purpose.
As the conjured grease disappears from sight, Njord rushes into the room and swipes at Lymas with his blade.
"Drop the sword you damned fool!"
"Drop your own, you ugly bandit!"
"He said drop the blade!" Antal takes a step to get into range and concentrates, causing the man's blade to superheat.
"Firiel!"
Randall moves around the deeper straw again and into a flank with Njord.
"Ugly!? You think he's ugly? You should see Sal, down on the docks - now, he's ugly. You are surrounded, Lymas, and the longer you fight, the less chance we can save your friend. We need to know where Larur is."
"And I said you're a lice-bitten dog of a midget!" yells Lymas at Antal, gripping his scimitar in both hands and grimacing. He glares at Randall. "I have no idea what you're talking about, scum, but if you're trying to distract me, you're out of luck."
"Aw, now that really hurts. I've trained those lice since they were babies. They wouldn't bite a dog - they have better taste than that. You're thinking of fleas."
Fíriel cries out as she's struck hard by the man's sword. "I'm okay I'm okay I'm okay..." she repeats to herself, taking a deep breath and holding up her dagger to stave off any more blows from the older man.