[center][h3][color=993333]István Shilage[/color][/h3][/center]

Another of the stone-carved effigies loomed within the assembled forces behind the Steel Princess casting his gaze down through the steel of his helm to spilt iron on the floor, the metallic scent upon his nose familiar as any. Fresh enough that it shone a brilliant ruby even in meager torchlight, cast from above by the mercenary's hand, Istvan saw no need to speak presently— he was roughly in agreement with the rest of the lot, and his words would redundantly murk the air where silence would give clarity. 

[i]Some[/i] arcane trickery had occured, be it a last-ditch effort to consolidate power by the higher ends of the fetid cult or the sublimation of the gambit they'd initially drawn up. A second raid concurrent with theirs was by all reasonable assumption out of the question; the spilled essence too localized, the surroundings too immaculate (save for structural vandalism, of course) by half. He was well-schooled in many areas, but the whims of magecraft did not fall within their number— though an imaginative mind pondered at the possibility of their unwitting participation in some ritual of bloodletting, given the fervor and number of cultists their theater had drawn forth.

Whatever had been done was to be preempted, at least prepared for. Idle chatter would distract.