[center][b] 
8:15pm, Last Seed 16 
Dining Room, Evermore Castle 
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[@Peik] [@Frizan] [@Spoopy Scary][/center]
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For a moment, it sounded like a simple accident. A quiet crash, then the sound of brittle bits smashing against the ground, all of it followed by a cacophony of gasps. Then, however, the screams began. And with the screams, the Dunmer realized that there was a brawl of sorts going on. Then, a half-beheaded nobleman fell flat right in front of him, and he realized there was more than a brawl going on – the dreaded moment of action had come at last. He quietly grasped at a spare bottle of drink discarded by one of the servants, smashed its butt against a table like he had done so many times in the past, and with that, he was no longer unarmed. Sadri Beleth was in yet another fight. Time moves forward, and nothing changes.

Being too sober to rush into the heat of battle this day, Sadri instead hugged the wall, hoping to avoid the commotion and make his way towards the doors of the dining hall. While he felt some sort of unnatural anger in his veins, it seemed to him to be nothing but adrenaline – yet, when he saw one of the guests on his knees, repeatedly smashing his own head to the ground like it were a woodcutter’s axe, more unnatural explanations began filling his mind. “Best not tarry here for long,” he thought, and made a dash for the doors, when he bashed into an old Breton and nearly fell flat on his rear.

“Out of my way, you corpse-faced mongrel!”

He would have objected to the statement, but before his retort, he found the wind knocked out of him by a swift kick to the gut. He fell, but quickly got back up, keeping himself to the wall assess the situation… Which seemed to worsen by the minute. The woman seemingly in charge of the commotion seemed to be controlling things from the stage, yet between Sadri and the stage was an entire makeshift battlefield, and even if he were to get near, her visible (and violent) display of magic would likely shoot him down in the very second.

Then he saw the flames. A widening field of fire, unyielding and uncaring in what it set aflame, seemed to be handling the chaos in its own way, by simply burning everything in the vicinity to a crisp. While he found himself more than content to leave it be, find a way to get out, and leave it all to resolve itself, but then he saw the source of the blaze. It was the younger member of the siblings Venim.

“Yeah, well, you ain’t leaving that kid there to die, Sadri, are you?”

Feeling too morally weak to tell his conscience to shut up and violently eject himself from the premises, he pulled his coat up to cover more of his face, and rushed into the flames to try and knock some sense into a fellow Dunmer. As he dived through, the fire seemed to part around him. Then, the rest of the fire seemed to shrink, or rather, be compressed. The wild flames, once rampant, was suddenly condensed into a swirling inferno centered around Niernen before it was suddenly ripped away from the young dunmer’s palms. It flowed like a snaking river before it found its new spiraling orbit around a red-gowned and gold toga wearing woman with similarly red hair and golden jewelry. Though Sadri had no reason to know the woman, her badge clearly ordained her as one of the Elder Council. Her eyes had a smoldering intensity as it trained on the vampire Sylette who stood at the head of the ballroom, and Niernen’s inferno was suddenly launched in her direction, singing the hairs of those below it, and bathing her target in a cascade of fire.

“You!” She shouted towards Sadri. “You look unaffected by the spell! Will you help me end this madness?”

At the other end of the room, a young Imperial emerged from an entranceway. After splitting with Edith, Sagax had made his way back to Delacourt’s office to investigate, as ordered. He did not find Delacourt there, but instead two bloody-faced spooks. The blood was more than likely Delacourt’s as his office appeared to have been the site of a struggle. One of the vampires had been injured during the fight, and Sagax’s dagger had somehow found its way next to them on the floor. 

The rogue seized the opportunity, dashing between the beasts and grabbing his dagger, shoving his elbows into their sides before taking off down the halls of the castle. They sprang towards him, clawing after the Imperial as if in a frenzy, chasing the Imperial through corridors, down a set of stairs, and across a small side garden. After sprinting for what felt like miles, Sagax saw a few lollygagging guards. He screamed that intruders had gotten in and killed Delacourt, and it did not take long for the guardsmen to discern who the cutthroats were. They descended on the ravenous bloodsuckers with fervor. One of the guards pushed Sagax behind him as some kind of protective gesture, and he used this to escape the scene entirely. Last he saw when he looked back briefly, the vampires were fading away into clouds of dust.

Sagax hurried back to the dining hall to warn the others. He did not at all expect that the vampires would attack in full force so soon. Attempting to weave through the hysterical crowd, Sagax dodged several wild, flailing punches and slammed into more than a few terrified guests. Suddenly he felt his heart race, his breathing becoming increasingly difficult to control. A cocktail of dread, terror, and panic flooded his mind. The Imperial’s duties demanded he try to find those of his company, but all he desired was to flee. That would prove a monumental task to the frenzied Sagax, as suddenly the throng of crazed servants and nobles became a maze, and all exits had seemingly disappeared, trapping him inside. 

A woman Sagax had never seen before barrelled at him through several other guests and grabbed him by the throat, sending both of them into a table. He tried struggling out of the madwoman’s grip, but her hands were hooked like a vice around his neck. A hard jab to the Breton’s jaw did no more than split her lip, her face still quivering with fear and rage. Sagax could feel the need for air overwhelm him; it was all he could think about. He yanked the woman’s head back by her long blonde hair and, in a split-second movement, tore the Dwarven dagger from his coat pocket and jammed it into the side of the Breton’s neck to the handle. She looked only confused for the first moment, and by the time she actually registered what had happened, the woman was already choking on her own blood on the wine-stained carpet underneath them, the life from her chocolate-brown eyes fading. Blood dripped messily from the dagger onto Sagax’s coat, he having yanked it away as the Breton fell.

Sagax fled, still trying to find an exit amongst the crowd, crashing into guests and tables all the while. He left the woman to die where she fell. He needed to get out. It was the lone thought dominating his mind, and the Eight help whoever got in his way.

Wylendriel, on the other hand, did not try to flee. Instead, she tried to find her way to the vampires that cast this spell. She knew that her powers especially would be crucial in destroying them, so it was fortunate of her to be able to resist their frenzying spell. There just lay one little problem -- well, a couple dozen -- [i]the frenzied guests[/i] getting in her way. Her irritation was beginning to bellow the flames of rage that slept dormant in her belly, and once again, she began to feel the itching at the inside of her skull. It was something that hasn’t bothered her since Dawnstar -- no, since the beginning of the fight as the Smuggler’s Cove. It was an emotion unbecoming of a priestess, and so she sought some way to relieve herself of some form of responsibility, to rationalize; and as always, it always came back to [i]him. He[/i] has been silent. [i]He[/i] hasn’t said a word to her since [i]that[/i] day. She knew what he would be saying though, and she could hear his voice clear as day.

[i]Go ahead. You know you want to.[/i]

Wylendriel was frozen in place.

[i]Kill them slowly. Reunite me with my [b]children.[/b][/i]

She could imagine the snarling, inhuman voice of a daedric prince. It was a tremor devoid of emotion that made a mockery of paternal love. Wy went to take a deep breath--

And suddenly she was punched in the jaw.

Then the images from the 30th of Midyear sprung forth.

[I]“DON’T--”[/i] she shrieked, [i]“FUCKING--”[/I]

A bluish, spectral visage of a devious, daedric mace materialized from the air above Wylendriel’s head, with freezing vapor sublimating from its form like dry ice. 

[i]“--TOUCH ME!”[/I]

The mace, even as light as it appeared, collided across a noble man’s head with devastating impact. While it didn’t explode or was knocked off his shoulders, it did immediately drop the man to the floor like a rock. Wylendriel didn’t even feel her shoulder pop, and stomped forward through the crowd of frenzied nobles with icy-cold conviction and a fiery-hot temper. Any one of the nobles that tried to lunge toward her wouldn’t expect the blinding speed in which the mace eagerly flew to shatter their jaws or concuss them upon their skulls as she marched ahead toward where she last saw one of the vampires. 

One did come close to her though, armed with a steak knife. She blocked it with her free hand and was subsequently impaled, but fought through the pain as that same hand began to glow with a sinister red aura. The bleeding began to slow, and her long, sharp nails dug into the hand of the woman that stabbed her, from whom she slowly sapped the life-force from. Her lively, blushed skin slowly dulled to a shriveled and dehydrated gray while the wound on Wy’s own hand began to close and push the knife out. With one final roar, the priestess sought to put the noblewoman down like an animal put out of its misery -- when a flower-painted shield had suddenly interposed itself between the two. A quick bash pushed Wylendriel backward, and the figure that had joined the fray was one draped in chainmail over their blue gambeson, and stood above the noblewoman. Caught up in her rage, Wy yelled and swung again, but the new combatant spun back around and deflected the strike with their shield -- her shield. Wy’s face came inches within the face of a young, wispy-haired Breton woman, who stared back with stern resolve. Wy’s eyes looked over the shoulder to see the dumbstruck and terrified expression of the woman she attacked earlier, sitting helplessly on the floor.

“What’s…” Wy tried to begin saying, but the female knight grabbed the front of the priestess head with a cold touch. Taken aback and visibly annoyed, she growled, “What are you doing?”

“Dispelling the frenzy.” The woman knight said, surprisingly soft-spoken.

“I’m not under that witch’s spell,” Wy protested, “I’m trying to find her! Who in Oblivion are you?”

“Mary Antoinette, templar.” She answered. “You could have fooled me -- but this is no time to argue. Witches are my specialty, but so is dispelling magic. Do you think you can find the witch behind this while I take care of the people here?”

“Uh, yeah, I--”

“Watch out!”

Wy then felt someone shove her from her side, and immediately she whipped around with her mace raised high in the air, only to suddenly hesitate when she saw the familiar face of Sagax. A pang of guilt slowly began to enter her furious eyes as she was coming to the gradual realization of what she was doing, and her body froze.

If the frantic Imperial saw the vicious weapon hanging precariously above his head, he did not seem to pay it any mind. Shoving past the priestess, Sagax flung himself into the wall behind her and began clawing at it, as if trying to find some kind of switch or lever hidden amongst the carvings.

“Where… where is it!? There was a damn door here just a second ago! I saw it, I SAW IT!”

Whipping around, Sagax grabbed Wylendriel by her shoulders, his breaths steadily turning into sharp wheezing. “You! Shy...V-vei? No, Wy! Wylendriel! We have to get out of here, NOW! But...but…” He paused, waving his hand across the room. “There aren’t any DOORS!”

Wylendriel just stood there, mace still in hand, but the rage that once filled her mind and covered her face was muted by stunned silence and engulfing sense of guilt. It was still raging in the background of her mind, but her sorrowful heart swelled at the sight of her comrade in his blind, fearful panic. She looked down at her finger to look at the ring he had given her back on the Tear in Jehanna. The bloodthirsty haze, like a veil, was lifted from her eyes and she became aware of the enchantment. Everyone in the room was getting hurt… and it was all because of those damned children of Bal manipulating them.

Sagax threw himself off of Wy and returned to the wall he was searching moments ago. “Who builds rooms without doors…?” He mumbled with a whine. “What MADMAN builds a ROOM...without DOORS!?”

Taking out his dagger, the trembling Imperial jabbed and scratched at the accents and panelling, evidently trying to dig his own way out. The absurdity had snapped the priestess out of her self-pitying stupor, and her feelings of rage returned -- but this time, it was controlled. She marched up from behind Sagax and grabbed his shoulder, abruptly turning him around and pushing his chest and pinning his back against the stonework wall.

“Sagax!” She snapped, gripping his clothes. “Listen to me! Get a hold of yourself! You’re under a spell!”

Her own snarling demeanor wasn’t a very reassuring message that she too wasn’t under the same spell, but honestly, she was too good at controlling her rage most of the time for this spell to take too much hold over her. As an additional measure, she shook the young Imperial a few times against the wall. The sound of a woman’s approaching battle cry warranted Wylendriel to turn around and strike the side of her head with the pommel of her conjured weapon, simply knocking them unconscious. Turning back to face Sagax, she leaned in inches away from her face and said, “You’re going to be okay. I just need you to knock some sense into as many people as possible. [i]Please![/i] Let me take care of Sylette, maybe then I can stop the spell for good.”

As for Sadri, he seemed to be far too focused on trying to get Niernen back into the lands of consciousness to notice his comrades’ setbacks, or to properly appreciate the scale of what the lady in red had done for him and everyone else. “I’m trying, fire lady!” He’d shouted hoarsely in response to the woman’s request, but now, he was only holding onto Niernen’s shoulders and shaking her in an attempt to rouse her back into the lands of sanity. For all his efforts, he was rewarded by her going unconscious, and some ice shards being blasted their way, some skidding off the stone floor and peppering his face with small bits which evaporates back into Aetherius soon after. Thinking quickly, he grabbed Niernen by the waist and placed her atop his shoulder, pulling himself up and attempting to rush to a safe corner, in which he would slip, fall, and fling Niernen next to some familiar figures – Sagax and Wylendriel.

“…Right, you didn’t see that,” Sadri quipped after a moment of awkward silence, patting the dust off his coat and pushing himself back on his feet. “Well, let’s end this, shall we?” He asked the two, not waiting for an answer. “We don’t have much time, but there’s some pyromancer who’s still sane on the other side of the room. I say she burns away the ice bitch’s magic and her henchmen, and then we go bash her skull into a pulp. Any objections?”

Sagax’s breathing, while still heavy, had become controlled. “Through your nose, and then out your mouth.” was a piece of advice Varulae had given him long ago. The exercise was supposed to calm you. What effect it was having on himself the Imperial honestly could not tell, but he kept at it regardless.

“Beleth… it’s good to see you, and with your wits about you, no less.” He glanced momentarily at the crumpled pile of robes nearby. Niernen is a tough woman, Sagax thought. She would be fine.

He thumbed the edge of his dagger and felt where the blade had chipped while hacking away at the wall in his panic. And the blood…

“That poor woman. She didn’t stand a chance.” His voice echoed in his mind.

“The whore tried to kill you, fool.” Another rumbled forth from depths unknown, deep and menacing but still worryingly similar to his own. Before he could mourn one woman, however, another required his immediate attention.

“Yes… yes, I find that an agreeable plan. If I can reach her quick enough, maybe a bashing won’t even be necessary… just one quick slice.”

He turned to the Wood Elf. “What say you, Wylendriel?”

“Vampires are undead,” she answered assuredly, “I know a spell that should give you two enough time to reach her.”

The spectral mace in her hand dissolved into mist before she stepped forward and placed a hand on both Sagax’s and Sadri’s shoulder. A flash of green infused both of them with a surge of energy and adrenaline, washing their bodies of fatigue and giving them a modicum of relief.

“Let's kill this bitch.”

The templar from before smiled at the sight of the three comrades coming together and forming their plan, then returned to her own mission of pacifying as many of the frenzied guests as possible. Between those killing each other and those being pulled from their frenzied stupors, the room was steadily thinning as a clear path to Sylette began to form.

Wylendriel's touch was not unlike snorting a sizable line of ground-up coca leaves; that old familiar feeling of intoxicant rush, which, by now, made Sadri feel almost dirty. But it was not time to wax poetic on his feelings, nor was it time to sit by idly with your heart beating like a battering ram - it was time to embrace the beat. "Try to catch up, kid," he quipped at Sagax, before rushing back into the fray.

Pupils dilated, fists clenched, Sadri Beleth seemed no different than the frenzied guests caught in the swirling bloodbath as he smashed his way through the guests, elbowing, shouldering and punching people to varying degrees of disfigurement. Getting closer to the stage, he took cover behind a fallen table of mahogany, grasped onto a spilled group of silver dinnerware as makeshift ammo, throwing the forks in hand at Sylette, while madly waving at the Imperial pyromancer for her to heat the stage up somewhat, so that he and his comrades could get up there without worry.

For the councilor, it was as simple as moving her fingers to command the flames to spill forth and rise from the ground. Two walls erupted, forming a blazing corridor to part the crowd and allow the mercenaries passage. This same fire also began to spread around the perimeter of the stage, quickly cutting off any hope of escape.

The misty mace returned to Wylendriel’s hand, who, without waiting for Sagax, charged ahead after Sadri. Her natural bosmer speed was on full display for the first time since joining the company and managed to catch up to the dunmer in little time, and peering through, she saw Sylette’s face beyond the licks of flame. She summoned her power to her alternate hand, mumbling subtle rites of Arkay and Stendarr. Mercy for the dead; somber for those in the ground, and the bitter kind  for those who need to be put back. With this prayer on the wind, a baleful light engulfed her spare hand as an undead turning spell began to manifest.

The three ran up the steps to the stage, putting themselves face to face with the vampire mage herself, hissing in defiance at the center of blazing arena. The heat radiating from the fires was harsh, though Sadri in particular seemed mostly unbothered by it and Sylette was fairing worse than either Wylendriel or Sagax -- the second or two of the stand-off felt excruciatingly long to the priestess, before Sadri’s rallying cry moved her to action.

The vampire was likely to cast some sort of spell upon the dunmer at the start of his charge, were it not for Wylendriel’s spell which caused her to flinch and narrowly avoiding the sword that swiped a bloodless cut across her cheek. It also meant stumbling into Sagax’s shortsword having nowhere else to go, and was forced to put her arm between the tip of his blade and her stomach. The blade went straight through her arm and moved the blade’s tip into her side instead. Her pained screeched echoed through the halls.

Sylette’s eyes darted around the perimeter of fire, her only exit being blocked by the priestess and the spell preventing her approach. A sneer grew on her face as she hissed, “Whatever happens now, we’ve already won.”

Before any of the three could answer, Syllette grabbed the wrist of Sagax’s hand still holding the sword impaling her body, of which she refused to let go, and pulled the Imperial close to her. With a freezing mist emanating from the very hand she grabbed him with, she muttered incantations beneath her breath. As Sadri moved in to free his comrade, a flurry of snow and ice swirled around the vampire, battering them both with the stinging cold and biting frost. She pushed Sagax away from her, and then she ran towards the fire.

“No!” Wy shouted after her, wishing for some kind of power to pursue her with.

Sylette’s frost cloak parted the flames before her, expecting to find her escape on the other side, but behind the fallen flames, her head met the flowery face of wooden shield instead.

[i]WHACK![/i]

Sylette fell backwards and hit the ground like a sack of flour, looking up dazed to see the templar from before standing over her. The vampire lunged at her, relying on her frost cloak as her deterrent, but just as that thought crossed her mind, an unfortunate irony followed suit. Against her own will, the howling storm circling storm faltered as the templar swiped her free hand through the air, dispelling the magic, and Syllette found herself charging face-first into the shield once again and was pushed back onto the ground.

Sadri, Sagax, and Wylendriel stood upside down upon the ledge above her in the break of the wall of fire. The former two hopped down, the self-designated executioners of the witch, and steadily moved forward to finish the job. She felt the templar pull her up to her feet by her robes, and suddenly found herself in a tight bear hug from behind. Her claws wouldn’t be able to penetrate her armor.

“Some victory.” Sagax quipped sarcastically, still rubbing the pain away from the frostbitten portion of his arm before looking to Mary. “Thanks for the assist.”

“You know,” Sadri mused, “I always seem to give away the honors of the final blow to someone else, but this time I think I’ll treat myself.”

And without missing a beat, one swift and clean slice from the dunmer was all it took to decapitate the vampire. Before the stagnant blood in her veins could turn to ash, Sylette knew she was going to regret her tortured afterlife in Coldharbour; knowing that the last thing she saw was to be killed by a dark elf in the most ridiculous outfit and mutton chops she had ever seen.