The dark elf's eyes widened at the number of contracts the woman pulled from her bag. He hadn't realized the extend of the conflict in the area, and he made a note to himself to keep aware for those with... nefarious purposes in his dealings. The Xanara's words intrigued him; just who was she to watch over these guilds? And who would want to curtail the guilds'chaotic behavior. It seemed there was much more intrigue in the area than Iouril had though at first glance. He was glad that he had not encountered much trouble in the area, though his dealings in the south most likely reflected the Annos Dorei's rising tensions, if her words were to be believed. 

He sat back in his chair, swirling his wine and watching the interaction between the bartender and Eri. It seemed he was right in assuming she was a local. His eyes swiveled to the corner of the room, where a man had come to accost his new associates. He watched the encounter coldly, not surprised at how fast it escalated. He was no stranger to brawls. He leaned back, impressed with the Xanara's immediate response. The dark elf groaned lowly as she baited them on; such a display could've scared the louts away had they no backbone, though pride insured they respond to her taunts.  

The group approached, and the elf slowly drew a dagger from his belt, holding it in a reverse grip against his wrist. His companions were just as much of targets as he, but, in the moment, he wasn't concerned; this Eri obviously knew how to handle herself, and between the two of them (and that was with the assumption that, the other girl, Sylvia, did nothing; and over that Iouril had no knowledge). He stood easily from his stool, his piercing crimson eyes narrowing at the two men who singled him out. Before they got too close, he pressed upon his dark skin with his knife, easily slicing a thick laceration on the outer side of his forearm. As the viscous fluid started to run down his wrist and to his clutched hand, it gathered on his fingers. A sneer formed on his lips and his brow furrowed as he winced through the slight but familiar pain that came from the drawing of his blood. After a moment, he flicked his hand at the closer of his adversaries; from his fingers came darts of blood, and they splattered across the man's chest. A startled cry left his lips, which turned to more panicked fumbling as his shirt began to smolder as the hex burned him. As his friend was distracted, the elf quickly spun his stool around and kicked it toward them, catching them off guard and making them stumble and fall into each other. The dark elf flipped his knife around, and carved a matching cut on his other arm, awaiting their refocused approach.