Arathorne was about to nod in the direction of the queen when the smoking canister broke through the window behind the diplomat directly opposing him, rolling to a stop between the legs of the man's chair before exuding a dark green haze. Arathorne had no idea what the smoke did, nor who fired it, only that he needed to get the canister out of the room and quickly. His conviction towards the task only increased when the politicians closest to the grenade began to cough and wheeze, with increasing volume. Their skyrocketing agony reflected in their expressions as the haze began to thicken with the bilious green smoke.<br/><br/>Before Arathorne knew it, the meeting room was in pandemonium. He quickly reached for a screaming noblewoman's sash, spitting on it and tying it around his nose to make sure as little of the damaging smoke got into his lungs as possible, before launching himself across the table. The chair in his trajectory was splintered as he landed, and he reached for the canister, clenching his fingers around it as he rolled over the ground. He got to one knee just as he closed with the window, and hurled the grenade with all his strength out into the waiting skies. It left a trail of gas behind it even as it hurtled towards the sands surrounding the castle.<br/><br/>His knights had put on their helmets and held their noses while, as per their knightly training in the protection of their lieges in case of an attempted assassination, attempting to orderly evacuate the increasingly panicking politicians, but the difficulty of communication in the pandemonium and the language barrier proved this to be ineffective. The knights attempting to lead the nobles out of the room could only run as fast as their legs could carry and cut apart the razor wire the Slayer prince had viciously tied around the entrance of the conferencing hall so the nobles could avoid the fate of one who was unfortunate enough to have his legs sliced, before the nobles surged out of the room in a great tide of human bodies.<br/><br/>People were trampled even as they struggled to get out of the room, pushing and shoving as hard as they could and stopping for no one. "You'll pay, coward," Arathorne grunted, jumping over the table back to his seat and retrieving his helmet. In the chaos, it had been knocked off the table and onto the ground, where it had been kicked around by panicking men and women. The plumes that had once beautifully adorned it were noticeably ruffled and damaged. Arathorne strode for the door as he put the helmet on and reached for his sheathed sword.