The table was on fire. Well, of [i]course[/i] the table was on fire. It was just that kind of night.

Growling, Vanahara shot up from her crouch with her shoulder braced upwards, and the table went with her—the flames hadn't yet charred through to the underside. The heavy piece of furniture flipped, launching a few feet towards the mages and sending cutlery and tankards flying. Vana rolled with her forward momentum, planting a boot on the flaming edge of the now-upturned table and vaulting over it, trusting the treated leather to not be too badly damaged. She cleared the table and the momentary heat of the flames and didn't stop for any fancy moves—simply bodily tackled the ice mage back to the ground. 

She wasn't interested in killing these people—disabling should be more than enough. She was about to do more than just pin the woman to the ground when out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flash of a black cloak—quickly disappearing out the door.

"Kaffas," Vana cursed, but the ice mage required all her attention—and running off on her own after a skilled Nightshade wasn't in her nature. She settled for shouting over her shoulder and calling the group's attention to the missing opponent. "Nightshade's getting away!"