The witch hunter's calm, in the middle of all the chaos that the night attack had brought, likely gave him an advantage against those which he had been fighting, not because of analytically guided strikes, for Marcel had no idea what he was doing despite his calm exterior, but rather because of how suicidally confident it looked. Wordlessly, and in fact soundlessly, Marcel swung the steel weapon in his hand, rather unused to its broader swings compared to his silver smallsword and its effectiveness in sudden thrusts. 

The Redguard who had been harassing him had been deflected properly for a while, but Marcel was not a swordsman by birth, unlike Redguards, who likely came out of their mother's wombs bearing scimitars, and thus Marcel had ended up on the defense. Unable to match the Redguard's speed with the sword, Marcel occasionally kicked back at the man inbetween parries to attain somewhat of an upper hand, and for a moment, it worked. His heel connected with the Redguard's groin, and the fellow, clad in a padded coat, recoiled. 

Marcel made good use of his suddenly found initiative and swung an immediate strike at the man's wrist, but the fellow, ever nimble, dodged by quickly stepping backwards. Marcel's blade licked thin air, although to Marcel's surprise, the fellow's admirable defense was broken after tripping on the arm of a dead archer. The Breton drew his sword backwards for a thrust to end the fight quickly, but hesitated for a moment upon seeing the Altmer, Keegan, struggle against a great tiger of a Khajiit, and in this moment of hesitation from picking targets, he fell to the ground with a flash and a crackling sound, lightning licking at his face and torso.

''That does it, no?'' A Dunmer quipped as he walked over to the Redguard, hands sparkling with magical electricity. ''Not so tough in the end.''

''No, wait. He's still alive,'' the Redguard replied, voice seething with the frustration borne of having been literal inches from death moments before. ''Crisp him,'' he said before coughing. ''Fucker nearly killed me.'' 

''Yes, I know,'' said the haughty Dunmer, and as the Breton managed to prop himself up on his knee, opened his hands with a flash, and moments after, began twitching unnaturally, right before he started smoking internally in front of his Redguard friend's eyes. Screaming in pain, his fingernails exploded, and his hands went from channeling electricity to the Breton to his eyelids, trying to contain his boiling eyes. He fell a charred, twitching mess, bleeding from all orifices, dead in moments.

''By HoonDing, what in Oblivion?'' The shocked Redguard gasped, as he gazed upon the Breton, whose face and clothes were slightly singed, but otherwise looked unharmed, although his hair, just like nearly every part of clothing that was loose, seemed floating and raised, as if pulled away by some otherworldly source. Marcel looked at the Redguard with slight contempt, but as the man started running away, he turned his head to see Keegan, bleeding, face to face with the tiger-man. 

On his knees, Marcel began crawling towards the duel, managing to throw himself back onto his feet and hobbling after a moment. Just as he came close, the Khajiit started a sprint towards the Altmer, prompting Marcel to raise his hand in protest.

[i][color=#87CEEB]S[/color][color=#8ED0EC]H[/color][color=#95D3ED]K[/color][color=#9CD6EE]O[/color][color=#A3D9EF]O[/color][color=#A3D9EF]O[/color][color=#A3D9EF]O[/color][color=#A3D9EF]W[/color][/i]

Out came a nearly blinding flash and an ethereal sound of discharge, and the Breton's clothes and hair, suddenly relieved of the static that bound them in their state, fell back to gravity's whim. Marcel, in that moment, felt an indescribable feeling of relief, best compared to the tenderest, most intimate moments of his time in bed alongside his dear Theodora, as if the worry that had been gnawing at the back of his head had been washed away with the flash.

His knees gave way with the immense relief and pleasure, with a warm feeling in his underpants, and Marcel fell to the ground face flat right after a dark liquid splashed all over him. Almost paralyzed in bliss, the Breton barely raised his head to see the remains of the Khajiit, a lower body, and an arm half-attached to the remains, splattered around the premises in a bloody mess. Keegan seemed to have received the most of the gore blast, though, nearly covered in blood and smaller bits of Khajiit.

Marcel, from underneath a layer of warm blood, just like the Altmer and practically everything in an eight-foot radius, barely fought the urge to sleep.

''There,'' he said to Keegan, gasping.