The sickly, scalding sear akin to flesh upon open flames crackled to life in the air which came with it an odor most foul; while repugnant alone in thought - what just transpired to the drow-elf's physical form as he willingly endured the intense white heat of the glowing metal - his vileness and evil bled through him more so. Visibly allowing loose pieces of his burnt form to fall about him like shriveled leaves, he was horribly disfigured by any mortal standard - requiring magical aid if he were to ever again appear as he did prior. The sword landing with a cascade of glittering sparks at his feet, audibly crackling as the two opposed magics fought at one another, he composed himself after a few moments of interlude.

Still this man of dark intent persisted in the face of his immense suffering, but it soon became clear why.

He was a mortal man, but gripped in something that was certainly not; Nerull, the Mockery - the Enemy of Life. For all the calm and peace that befell creatures when their time ran short, Nerull was the sole force to rip it away as a cruel gesture of power... but it was the tattoos that spoke a thousand words. Each tattoo revealed by his lack of armor displayed some greater sacrifice of self - or another - to his master.

All this man was, was no more himself - just a puppet of a dark god.

Abjuration shielding his form as best it could, the man found himself taking the brunt of the onslaught of darkness cast forth from the drow's hand; its terribleness dazing him briefly. For all his endurance and willpower, the sheer darkness channeled was enough to penetrate the barrier against evil and still inflict bodily damage to the man. Taking a step back, as if pushed at a distance, he steadied himself, resting slightly in a hunch - hand braced lightly to a wall.

The naiveness, or outright denial, of the girl beside the humble man, whose arm was numb from pain and settled in blood, was enough to spur him to words while he straightened his form to standing; the debilitating blackness having worn off the worst of its effects.

[i]"Enough prattle..."[/i] He began mystic gestures, calling upon one of the greatest of powers he held knowledge of, [i]"Aid the man and the orc - buy us time, woman."[/i]

The man of the staff, having shaken free of the turn of events, lashed out with a fearsome and surprise blow of his choice weapon at Cario's hand of which bore the Dark Seed; if he could break his hold, the darkness' might - Nerull's might - would ebb from this blacksmith briefly in scope. It was a multiplier of force that needed to be addressed if there was any hope to put this battle behind them with no casualties aside from Cario's.

After all, both of the commoner's hands grew alight with an amalgamation of orange and golden flames, the latter of which seethed with sacred energy while the former burned bright in traditional flame. Raising both palms from his sides in a sweeping motion he prepared his spell and so they grew far more intense and vivid. 

But... there proved to be a distraction beside the druid now in the form of a young boy of bright blonde hair and perhaps brighter eyes who wedged his way between the door and the conflict. This complicated matters some, driving the no longer mere commoner to sidestep slightly, putting himself before the human as his action remained ever readied for the opening it needed.

Gritting his teeth, he muttered incoherently - the situation escalating too quickly for but a lone Fang of the Wild to handle; at least the much needed assistance was here in part.

[@Shade][@Gentlemanvaultboy][@SouffleGirl123][@TaroMaster4]