Antal returns to wherever it is that Jametor is hanging out to relay his discovery.
"Well, my elven friend, ask and you shall receive." And with that, he goes into detail about the meeting with a cyphermage that he's arranged for Jametor.
Fíriel smiles over at Randall. "It's been a lovely evening, Randall. I must go and visit with my parents this evening; I promised them I'd check in with them. I hope you'll excuse me?"
"Of course. I could walk you there, if you wish."
Fíriel smiles. "I'd like that."
The two set off, and eventually reach Fíriel's house. "I'll be back in a few hours... I... hope you can forgive me not inviting you in. My parents are... well... they wouldn't understand."
She blushes apologetically.
Randall smiles, totally expecting her request, "I can't blame them in the least. I will wait nearby. Call out when you are ready to leave. I'm not comfortable with you walking alone back to the Goblin. Or me, for that matter."
"I think I will be safer waiting here than walking back alone. I'll be near." He doesn't touch her lest someone within be watching, just gives her a tentative little wave and steps away.
Fíriel smiles happily and heads inside. He's so thoughtful...
Randall finds a place to wait and watch the house and the street. He's not actively hiding, but he tries not to be obvious.
Fíriel and Randall make it back just before closing time, and head to the back to sit in a quiet corner with mugs of sarsaparilla. Njord "rests" in one of the nicer guest rooms downstairs, while Jametor and Antal help the staff clean up after the last few patrons. The two bouncers in charge of locking the doors have just done so when there's a flash of something and a moment later, four muscular toughs come crashing through the front windows.
The four on-duty bouncers are taken by surprise and slow to react.
Jametor pulls out a piece of cured leather and with a wave of his hand and a command word, an invisible field of force snaps around him.
Jametor says, "Swiftwing warn the others."
Fíriel follows.
The four toughs move to engage the guards, though one of them spots the halflings and crows to his comrades, "There they are! Get 'em!"
One of the guards goes down, while the other manages to parry the blows meant for him. The guards engage in turn, but only one manages to land a hit.
Njord pauses mid-thrust.
"What was that?" the sweaty ulfen asks with a growl. "It sounded like breaking glass."
"Does it matter?" asks Samaritha. "You can find out what it was later."
"Har! Has there ever been a better woman", the big man laughs before going back to work.
Randall, realizing where the bird is going, hustles over to open the door, drawing the masterwork dagger with the other hand.
Fíriel draws a dagger and moves into position behind one of the attackers, stabbing furiously. "I don't know what you're talking about, but you've made a mistake attacking us!"
Antal draws his crossbow and fires at the thug the guard hit.
The four attackers continue battling, though the two northern ones decide to take advantage of the flank to try to kill the stabby little dress-wearing halfling.
The southernmost guard goes down, and his two fellows look rather frightened. They fight bravely, but only one manages to breach his opponent's defenses.
One of the thugs clutches his wounds and looks woozy, but stays on his feet.
Jametor moves forward a few feet and casts Flare at one of the thugs. Exploding the flare in front on his face
Swiftwing continues flying to warn Njord.
Randall tries to get up and over the counter in front of him to get to Firiel's aid more quickly.
Jametor's target closes his eyes reflexively at the flash, then opens them to glare at the elf. Randall hops over the counter and manages to plant his dagger in the club-wielder's back.
*Grunt*
Njord’s momentum slows as the panicking bird’s squawks are heard.
”What the hell does Swiftwing want? This had better be important…”
Disentangling himself from his partner, Njord gives Sam a grin before moving to the door and popping it open.
”The Goblin had better be on fire or somethin’”
Fíriel takes a moment to frown sadly at the bloodstains on her lovely dress, then looks up at the monster who did it and stabs at him angrily, but fails to connect.
Antal moves forward and tries to frighten the thug between Fíriel and Randall. His target glances over, wide-eyed, and stops attacking.
Seeing Antal bearing down on him, Art the club-wielding thug tries to escape through the window.
The other thugs continue their assault. The one between Fíriel and the guard turns his wrath on the latter, while the one with no opponent goes after the wizard.
The guards try to fight off their attackers, but can't find purchase with their clubs.
The little halfling slices once at the escaping intruder, then turns her attention to the one behind her. He goes down to her knife in his stomach.
Antal tries to fire again, hoping to hit one of the interlopers.
Jametor takes a five foot step backwards and flings a command word and blue sand out of his hand.
Njord glares at Swiftwing with a now-is-not-a-good-time look.
Swiftwing squawks and says, "Under attack big room." With that she turns and flies back toward the main room.
Randall tries to give the exiting thug a going-away present he will remember for the rest of his life.
"Firiel, you're bleeding! Are you all right?"
Seeing the fight in her eyes - and her dropping the other thug, he decides she's probably fine for the moment and rushes to aid against the remaining thug.
The fleeing thug screams as both daggers strike him hard. He panics and jumps a moment too soon, causing Randall's dagger to bite more deeply. With a gurgle, he falls across the broken windowsill.
Yup, for the rest of his life.
Njord’s eye grow wide, ”Under attack?!” He looks Samaritha’s way, ”Stay here!”
Failing to spot his sword among the hastily discarded clothing littering the floor, the big sweaty (and very naked) ulfen rushes out into the front room.
”You lot picked the wrong night for this”, half-masted Sven growls with his hands clenched into meaty fists.
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