Malcador crouched behind a collection of ferns as the townsfolk either ran or led a desperate defense against the onslaught. Winged shapes flew over as cutthroats in black killed men, women, and children alike. To the wizard's satisfaction, he did see a number of them dead, even the winged fiends. While he doubted the townsfolk of Thenton to hold them back, the people of the moonsea weren't unaccustomed to harship and knew how to defend themselves from incursions from Thar.  

An opening! 

He sprinted across the street while a heavy cavarlyman was busying a trio of swordsmen with his lance, and there seemed to be no overhead fliers at that moment. With his long legs, he crashed into the next house, opening the front door swiftly and abruptly closing it. As he spun to the foyer, he saw a macabre scene. A haggard mage, using fel energies, was drawing the blood out of the slaughtered family. It made Malcador's skin crawl. Blood magic was banned from being practiced except under the strictest circumstances, even in the Hosttower of the Arcane. Only adepts and above could do so, and always with supervision. 

Immediately the bloodmage spun towards Malcador, the siphoning blood splattering onto the floor. Mal got on the balls of his feet,, reaching for a small bust on the foyer table as the bloodmage began to chant. As the incantation increased in volume, Malcador realized he recognized the spell. He waited as the mage raised their hand to him, and with the reflexes of a thief and the knowledge of what was going to happen next, he threw the bust at the bloodmage. His eldritch lightning hit the copper statue and burst it, copper shrapnel flying everywhere. It tore into the bloodmage's chest, but Malcador tackled him before he could even buckle, and the two went to the floor in a tangle of limbs. The mage felt like a sack of meat slapping onto the ground, having lost control of his limbs from the evisceration of the copper fragments.

Malcador's face was scratched, but he got the better of the weakening bloodmage and slammed his head into the hard floor, knocking him out cold or killing him outright. He was not sure, but he really couldn't care less. What he did care about was the book that was sprawled open, having fallen out of the mage's limp hand. 

Well, it wasn't his spellbook, and it would take some time to work through it and learn the spells, but it was better than having nothing. He rifled through the sorcerer's robe as the blood began to spread, taking a number of silver and gold pieces and a clawed amulent of some kind. He would figure on it later. He grabbed the book and went into the other room, hoping to find a spell to help him locate Serphia, or at least defend himself. He didn't want to remain in the foyer. He had seen too many dead families today, he believed. 

Briefly, he prayed to Mystra for Serphia to be safe, then he prayed for her to bring his sanity back, because he had no idea why he was even the slightest bit worried. Likely his lower half doing the thinking.