[i]So we strike again, then?

No. Not until the man named Greyson Onyx gives the signal.

We want their blood. We need their blood!

Wait for the signal.[/i]

Sometimes there were benefits to being a tiny shrimp. Ereshk huddled behind Grey Onyx, hiding from the sight of the bandits. He realized as he did so that he was also keeping the sight of the bandit's blood hidden from himself. His concentration remained intact so long as the blood stayed hidden, and so the shaman's soft chanting continued unbroken. It was nothing more than whispers in the wind, white noise that echoed in an eldritch tongue.

Suddenly Grey Onyx snapped his fingers. The signal. That was the signal! Ereshk released the pressure building within his essence. Another surge of power burst forth from the mage's body, manifesting as writhing tendrils that hid in the shadows. Once more they slid underneath Grey Onyx, ignoring the man completely in their mad race to the target. With sadistic glee the raging shadows lunged towards the injured bandit, silencing his screams of agony. More of that delicious pink mist wafted into the air, oozing out of the chunks of gooey flesh and staining the street below. 

Ereshk, meanwhile, had shut his eyes the moment he had released his spell. Shrouded in the comforting darkness of the void, he remained blissfully ignorant of the mess his spells had made.