Malcador heard her scream his name just as he was punched in the face. 

He truly had not expected it. It was a brawl, sure, but he had kept as close to the wall as possible until he verified he could make a go at Emmaline, yet as soon as he stepped one foot out, a fist came out of the crowd and hit him square in the face. It was only by the endless grace of the gods his nose had not shattered, yet he still lamented it. Not the pain, but the fact his face was the money maker! He was a dashing man, and prized his looks highly. 

Malcador staggered back, blinking away the bright light that had exploded in his vision. He hit the wall again, and if it wasn't for another scream from Emmaline, he might have checked out then and there. He was averse to fist fighting, trying to avoid it at all costs. Yet he had been in two tavern brawls before, and one poorly executed schoolyard fist fight. It had been unfortunate all 3 times, but they gave him a small sense of how to dodge and how to hit if need be. He pushed off the wall again after shaking his head and fixing his hair, dodging through the crowd and ducking under the next fist that flew his way. He struck out in the direction this fist came from, and heard a satisfying groan of pain. He spied Emmaline on the stairway, and rushed forward until he was blocked by the stumbling body of a duelist, his face bloodied. Malcador cried out, shoving the stammered man away, inadvertently unsheathing his rapier from his belt. He looked at the sword newly gripped in his hands, and shrugged to himself. He lifted it and slipped past a gaggle of drunkards in a whirlwind of fists and another tavern wench breaking a bottle of watered down mead over a dwarf's head. At last Malcador leaped over a newly fallen chair and made it to the stairway. 

"Clodfoot!" He cried dramatically, rapier raised. "Unhand her!" 

The tall halfling turned, an oxymoron if there ever was one, but it was true. Clodfoot looked both angered and perplexed. "Who might you be!?" 

"I am the one who sent the note." He told him, only to nearly lose his step as one of the halfling body guards had been tossed his way like a sack of grain. Malcador took three steps up, and the mootlander hit the stairs with a disgusting, weighty thump. All three of them winced for a moment. 

"You!? Who in Ranald's taint are you, and why do you wish to kill me!?" 

"I don't wish to kill you, you fool! I bought the drinks and sent the note because someone else does, now unhand this poor woman!" Malcador ordered. Clodfoot's face was unreadable save for the mild effort of thinking over the situation. He looked at Emmaline, and then back at Malcador. "Very well then, I believe you. But perhaps I'll buy this girl's services in more ways than one." He smiled lasciviously. 

Emmaline slapped the halfling, who whirled on her. Malcador had seen enough, poking the rapier's rigid blade between the halfling's legs and pivoting the angle, tripping him up. Clodfoot squealed an undignified squeal, and plummeted down the stairs, nearly taking Emmaline with him. It was her turn to squeal, but Malcador dropped the rapier and caught her before she could join the bugger in a heap at the bottom. The two mystics smiled at one another, but before they could kiss, the last halfling bodyguard had come to find his motionless, knocked out brethren. He looked between them and the two students. 

"I suggest you take your master back to the mootland. Reikland is a silly place." Malcador told him, still keeping his aristocratic air of authority.