Avad grinned lopsidedly. "A single silver coin? Please. Who do you take me for?" He dug into one of his numerous belt pouches, taking out three golden crowns.

Which was a [i]lot[/i] of money.

He tossed them to Sergei. "I wasn't present for your civil war, but I remember Nightvell. You fight well. It's worth the money, and at least until I can clear my name, I'm going to need all the help I can get."

Then a headless person wearing a [i]spine[/i] walked up. And Avad was...startled.

"[color=6ecff6]Achmat adalber malakelta eirinn verelest oine'in[/color]!" Ignoring the pulsing pain in his head, he traced the glyph in the air, letting a blast of elemental lightning surge forth from his palm. It was rare for him to use combat magic of that potency; it was, in fact, very likely that it was the first time anybody there had seen him using a spell that powerful. A little known fact, mostly only known by mages, was that the more words in a spell, the more powerful it was. The usually run-of-the-mill spell was four words. Six? Six was preposterous.

The immensely powerful magic surged away from him, and his eyesight flickered briefly before dimming entirely. As his headache multiplied ten...twenty-fold, he fell over sideways, gasping for air.


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[color=6ecff6]Lightning-Strike-Seek-Pierce-Debilitate-Destruction
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