"Shame," Eovaine shrugged at the man's response and turned to look at the assortment of figures within. The first of which he noticed was the gnoll. A bloody gnoll. Here. It was unusual and more than a little disconcerting. Savage, brutish. The only good thing he could see of that beast was the fact that it'd gladly meet the brunt force of whatever they'd have to face with equal or perhaps even more brutish savagery. And it wasn't just the gnoll that was like that, he'd known humans that could hold their own against gnolls and something about them, all these large bastards, was their insane need to attract as much swords as possible in their direction. 

Stifling a shudder, he looked away from the gnoll and noticed the other patrons around as he subconsciously grabbed a tankard of brandy and drank. There was another elf present wearing a mask and some oversized claok and he got the distinct impression he was trying to pass off as a human. Couldn't be it, though. Perhaps trying to hide some sort of frailty. He shrugged internally, at least he wasn't the only elf around.

Then there was a priestess. That, out of all of them, shocked him the most. The innocence flowed out of her like a massive beacon, an aura of pureness that he knew their dark world would snuff out, and he hoped, somewhat desperately, that it wouldn't come to pass until after this mess was over with. Still, she didn't belong here, and if the insane mage truly intended to seek out his staff, she'd only be a hindrance to them, a burden that would weigh on all those with a heart in this fucked group. She was like the physical manifestation of all the good within them, stolen away and bundled up within a human girl and placed within their midst, smiling sweetly in the face of the monster that was their dark world, full of innocence and naivety. Her fall from grace, an eventuality that was almost certain, would doom them all. By simply being here she had guaranteed their deaths. More of the good within them than physically, but what was the difference? The only thing he could do was delay her demise as long as possible. More for his own sanity, he had to admit, than her own good.

He looked away, his face twisting to mimic the sorrow he felt inside. They were all fucked and this damn rambling mage had doomed them. All for some glorious, desperate final attempt at a fabled weapon that might not even exist. He should've followed that sergeant's advice and joined the military. Perhaps that would have had better for him, but he was dead anyway, so what difference did it make? Almost a century and a half of life and it was going to end following a plan that might not even work. Well, at least it would be interesting.

Especially since the dead seemed to be rising. 

If anything, these fucking cultists knew how to make an entrance. He finished the rest of his brandy and threw his empty tankard at an undead's head, stood up and looked at the wizard with a grin. "Looks like you've successfully managed to annoy the dead with your ramblings, Mage." He unsheathed his swords and followed the massive human out of the tavern into a red sky and a scene of pure horror. In the distance, far to the north, he saw a squad of cultists approaching and the behemoth that was the gnoll rushing them, bulling his through the undead, his arms swinging to lop off multiple heads at a time. 

Eovaine couldn't help but feel the cultists managed to track him. It didn't make sense, he knew, but the feeling was there, a small doubt in his mind. And that feeling grew to become horror. What if beyond this decrepit bazaar a company of cultists and whatever else was camped  and these bastards were just scouts. Well shit. If they were, he wouldn't die by their hands. He'd face that fucking army grinning like the mad bastard he was. And with that he rushed in, his swords swinging in a frenzy as they slew undead after undead and it wasn't long until a small pile grew behind him of headless, immobile bodies. But the further he went, he noticed the bastards were becoming more and more sophisticated. More effort was suddenly put into parrying or sidestepping brutish swings rather than brazenly lopping off heads.

It got to a point where killing them came to halt and he was left parrying and dodging, although not difficult, their sheer numbers  threatened to flank him and so he backed off, his swords dripping with blood and gore. He needed someone to support his flank, otherwise he'd be stuck there until he was eventually overrun.