It was clear Emmaline rambling was something that was completely out of his element. He seemed more the type to be more comfortable in a scrap than a bubbly blonde that couldn't take a hint. He insistently tried to move her, and eventually he managed to grab her by the shoulders and hustle her to the exit. "Hi Emmaline, I- uh yes that is my name. I just-" He stopped, trying to speak past her. They reached the door. He placed his hands on his hips. "I didn't attack him, and no. He threatene- wait you saw that? Hold on just... ok wait, we can talk about this and I'll tell you everything tomorrow at breakfast if you want to know, but you can't be in here, ok?"
[hr]
[i]8 hours later...[/i] 

The groaning of the derelict caravel was the only forewarning the city received that cool spring night. Floating by the slowly rippling sails, shredded by some unseen foe, the ship glided through the waters of the near-empty docks of Varone. The ship's starboard side spilled dark crimson liquid into the harbor, the bloodstream untold miles out to sea; drawing in every manner of sharks in its wake. The Varone harbor had not seen the fins of Great Whites for eighty years, but they followed the caravel too to slake their lust for blood. Slowly, the ship rode the water, tearing through the flimsy wooden walkway and cracking into the stone of the quay. No sailors called or woke, for none were alive or present to do so. Instead, the only inhabitant onboard awoke. 

A dockyard worker stumbled down the wharves, the moonlight glinting off the bottle he carried in his hand. His hair waving about lazily from a drunken brawl, he had handily decked a Norgardian foreigner and taken his drink, and now he consumed the reward for victory. The warnings of strange happenings at the edge of the wilderness past Varone's walls scare the drunkard, even were he outside the great gates. But here he was, at the very heart of the city where none may attack except by sea and the only danger being pitiful street toughs. He was safe and enjoying the kiss of the air on his skin. But his attention was drawn when the caravel collided with the stone of the docks not a dozen paces away, sending the vessel, looming under the moonlight like a great phantasm from the deeps, into a shudder. The ship slid backwards, its momentum lost. But something dropped off of it; something man-sized. The thing looked like a mere shadow at first, and its sleek but powerful form moved like a serpent, its back muscles rippling like a flowing river. Though it crawled as if it was merely prowling, its movements were impossible rapid. The man blinked, trying to push away the haze of the moving shadow, realizing a moment later that it was moving towards him. 

[i]Meanwhile...[/i] 

The group that chose to, slept soundly. The lights of the [i]Ubrico Soldati[/i] snuffed out, it's duelist and sailor clientele having long left for their respective (or disreputable) homes. Jonathan Albrieco had first envisioned his establishment to be a haven for the soldiers of the great city state, but their modest means and his expensive rent had led the prices to disagree with them, even with the discounts he had attempted to garner. Despite the costs, Jonathan was glad to hold a group of newcomers if they were reliable enough to get him a steady stream of alcohol for the place.

As it were, the groups had managed to come to an agreement on their rooming situations, which was had Jaina, Emmaline, and Migi in room 26, Reyvadin and Lorcan in room 27, and Raddek and Faeril in room 28. Migi slept on the couch, which wasn't so bad considering it was as large as a queen size for her. Whether they had done much more than eat, drink, or party for being in civilization was irrelevant. What was relevant was the ruckus that began past midnight at room 25. 

Suddenly, the door was kicked open. Inside, the occupant was jolted awake. It was difficult to gauge all that happened, or for how long. But the women's room, room 26, heard so much crashing that each and every one of them, if they had been asleep, would not be any longer. Outside of their door, there was a demon. No, not a demon. But not truly a man, either. He wore the rags of a desperate vagabond, his chest sunken and his stomach deprived of food. His skin was pale and sallow, sickly. His left arm was the most grotesque aspect of him; with veins glowing red and skin cracked like dry magma, it looked like burning blood dripping from the cracks, searing into the wooden tile of the corridor. He had an aura of fear surrounding him, but it was slightly dashed when a booted foot crashed into his face, snapping his head back violently. Another kick from Beren caused the abomination to stumble back. The door at the far end of the hall opened, Raddek stepping out in ne'er but his trousers, brown hair wild and iron eyes glinting. One look between Beren, who's shoulder and left pectorals were badly burned, and the monster, was all he needed. He hadn't his weapon, but a chair was in his hands and he swung it like a maul, breaking it over the assassin-thing's head, staggering it again and sending it to the floor. Beren strode after the thing, his bewildered look Emmaline was accustomed to gone, replaced by the hard gaze of a warrior. His bare caramel chest was even more herculean than Raddek's, though the Thaegar was an slightly taller and just as imposing when wrathful.