The situation seemed tense but manageable to Varzhul, the thugs were drunk and more than manageable; stumbling like children and just as weak-willed. That was until he heard the door behind him open and spied the presence of a drow appear from behind him, the chances of it being anymore other than his tainted step brother being as minimal as the situation now remaining peaceful. He wasn’t driven by fear or some sense of cowardice in trying to avoid conflict but rather in an attempt to keep a relatively low profile until they’d had a chance to discuss things as a group. The heavy echoes of the drow’s boot broke the terse silence of the room and his following action completely annihilated the tension. When the scarred drow, always bearing a propensity to violence akin to bloodlust, took offence to the demands of one of the guards it was only going to end one way. The slightest nod was a late warning as the drow proceeded to smash his head through the face of one of the guards, a move that Varzhul highly doubted could draw origins from Brand’s teachings, the room exploded into action. As he began striding forwards at quite a pace, Quinn took the innovative mood of launching a cask of brandy, a move that would’ve caused amusement in Varzhul were he not restraining his emotions as if they were wild, ravenous beasts. [i]Lub-dub[/i] Varzhul felt his heartbeat begin to slow in time with his long, deep breaths as his cold, lifeless eyes flickered across to Masef’s interior struggle which he would be sure to inquire about afterwards. [i]Lub-dub[/i] The final set of steps took him towards a guard who’d turned to meet his trajectory, sword already raised even as his companions were falling around him. The guard, feeling confident with blade in hand swung across at the unprotected left side of Varzhul, attempting to exploit the fact that his short sword hadn’t yet cleared the sheath. [i]Lub-dub[/i] In almost slow motion, Varzhul completed the trap as his left hand, hunting knife clenched in a vice-like grip, moved with an almost inhuman grace in rhythm with a slight spin of the body rival even the best of dancers. There was an audible [i]ting[/i] as the two blades met in mid motion, the thug only having time to widen his eyes at the realisation that he’d been tricked and that he had become prey. Varzhul’s momentum continued his current trajectory, leaving the back of the man’s knee crucially unprotected. [i]Lub-dub[/i] A boot lashed out, the man crumpled with a pained growl until his head was cracked by the pommel of Varzhul’s short sword, easily incapacitating the man. It’d been simple, elegant and painless, for Varzhul, yet carried out with a brutal efficiency to match that of any wild animal. [i]Lub-dub[/i] Releasing his breath with a barely audible sigh, he brought he brought his two blade up, one about twice the size of the other, his right clenched in a traditional grip, his left holding the knife in a reverse grip with the blade running parallel to his arm. His eyes revealed that the landscape of the tavern had changed somewhat; three of the men were down with a fourth stumbling towards Sigur courtesy of Lysandra. Her actions affirmed his suspicions about her identity, the presence of a trained fighter ill fit that of a barmaid, let alone the use of roped daggers, a weapon unique to only one person that he knew. He emotionlessly faced the remaining two, warily watching their move as a predator watches their prey, ready to swoop on a second’s notice.