[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/230709/b2d64c98395f01e2c7cbdf98293c4c91.png[/img]

[color=saddlebrown][b]Time:[/b][/color] Early Afternoon
[color=saddlebrown][b]Time:[/b][/color] Early Afternoon
[color=saddlebrown][b]Location:[/b][/color] The Nest; Roshmi
[color=saddlebrown][b]Interactions:[/b][/color]
[color=saddlebrown][b]Mentions:[/b][/color] [@ShiningSector] Five; [@FunnyGuy] Thraash; [@princess] Mari; [@Alivefalling] Aerilyn
[color=saddlebrown][b]Equipment:[/b][/color]
[hider]His travelling clothes - Dark, earthy shirt and coat, with trousers tucked into boots
A hooded, oilskin cloak
His bow, unstrung
A musket
Two pistols
Two hatchets
His travelling pack[/hider][/center]
[hr]

Scathael’s plan did not work.

Granted, he supposed that it had more to do with the fact that everyone was far too occupied with trying to get out of The Den than anything intrinsically wrong with his idea itself. Not every window had been thrown open to their fullest extent, and not every ceiling fan spun at their best possible speed. But, there was one saving grace: In their rush to vacate the building, nobody had the mind to shut the doors behind them. Dirt and detritus from the street outside drifted past thresholds, caught in the swirls of a weak breeze. 

Such a paltry wind did little to dispel the Warforged’s miasma, and its effects were already starting to make themselves known. It wasn't the individuals on the peripheries of the cloud who suddenly collapsed that caught Scathael’s attention – more likely than not, they were simply struck by panic and hysteria – but the Dragonborn engaging the automaton in combat. As far as Scathael knew, the Dragonborn were a resilient and tough people. They could take enough punishment to kill any other species thrice over and still remain on their feet and raring to fight.

And so, to see one slowed and muddled by the gas was concerning, to say the least. 

[color=saddlebrown]“Paralytic agent,”[/color] the dark elf muttered beneath his breath. Be it as gas or liquid, it was a common enough thing used by bounty hunters across the world. Scathael would never claim to be a chemist, but he spent enough time around such people to know a thing or two about such concoctions. Chief of which was that depending on the ingredients used, the gas could either be effective only in a dense cloud, or it could put a person on the ground with just the barest of whiffs.

Scathael wasn’t keen on finding out firsthand. Clicking his tongue, he grabbed his equipment and slipped around the sides of the building towards the kitchen. Between the rushing crowd making their exit, and the cacophony of the fight, it wasn’t difficult for him to pass unnoticed. 

The kitchen’s air was thick and soupy, heated by at least a half-dozen idling stoves. Half-cooked food and discarded pots and pans sat on their tops. Scathael ignored them all and focused on searching for the one thing he cared about. It had to be in here somewhere; every kitchen had one, lest the owners of the place be of the sort to not mind one or two kitchen staff suffocating to death every so often. And even so, there had to be something similar, or at least something Scathael could bend to his purpose with some tinkering.

The ventilation fans sat partially embedded in a wall far to the back of the kitchen. Scathael made his way towards them with haste, pulling out his tools even as he moved. By the time he reached the scuffed panel he knew was covering the gearbox, he had his screwdriver out and ready to remove the rusted and pitted screws holding it in place. The hammered piece of copper was dropped onto the floor along with its ruined fasteners. Scathael had no need of them anymore. His true aim was what laid within. 

[color=saddlebrown]“Alright, let’s see here,”[/color] he murmured as he looked at the collection of gears before him. Each was linked with another, and all were heavily scarred with rust. It didn’t seem as if anyone had ever given them even a customary oiling before. Scathael chewed on his lower lip. That could potentially prove hazardous to his plan, but it wasn’t as if there was anything else he could do at this point. He flipped the switch to stop them from turning. One-by-one, he carefully plucked them from their axles and laid them on the floor by his feet, arranged according to their size. 

Scathael had repaired enough such mechanisms to pay for food and lodging to know how a large majority of them worked. Connecting the fans directly to The Den’s power plant would cause them to spin much too fast to be of any practical use. It was thus the job of the gearbox to essentially reduce and limit the power given to the fans. With a little creativity and intentional malpractice, however, Scathael could just as easily reverse the process and instead feed the fans as much power as The Den could provide. It was, at best, a wild idea and at worst, a stupid one, but it was all Scathael had. He didn’t even care about the fight at this point; no matter who won, the gas would still linger and stay, and cause problems for everyone involved, himself included. 

He hammered the last gear into position just in time to hear someone’s muffled attempts to parley with the Warforged. A brave attempt, but not one Scathael was confident would succeed. [color=saddlebrown]“Lady Fate, don’t piss on me now,”[/color] he said drily beneath his breath, then pulled the switch. 

The gears crunched once, then twice, and then spun with such intensity that they visibly shivered on their axles. The fans spun until they made a loud whine, and a gust almost knocked Scathael back. The strong wind tore through the kitchen, rattling utensils and sending loose parchments flying. The dark elf gathered his things and made a quick exit. It was unlikely that the gears or even fans themselves could keep this up for long before, quite literally, shattering themselves. He wanted to be away when that happened. It didn’t feel like the sort of thing he could repay with just his labour.