Unencumbered by her armor Eira was that much more the lethal dancer than a metal-clad brute: she'd taken but a step into the chaos of the cabin after splintering the door open when W'inton's shriek of warning reached her just a breath ahead of the demon-elf retreating towards the door, and<i>her</i>. She let her momentum carry her forward into a roll, and all that force behind a sharp slash of her sword at Esserea's hamstrings on the way past; surely enough to sever tendon and perhaps bone. Almost as smoothly she was back on her feet, though, with one of the throwing-axes sheathed in her belt having, seemingly on its own, leapt to her hand -- and she hurled it true toward the back of the demon-elf's skull.<span style="color: magenta">"You,"</span>she intoned mid-throw, in a voice like coldest steel honed in deepest earth,<span style="color: magenta">"are not going <i>anywhere</i>."</span><br/><br/>Now the long dirk from her boot filled her free hand, and she was bringing her sword back up -- both weapons limned with violet St. Elmo's Fire from the lightning W'ineton had gathered and cast -- to guard, or pursue, or finish off Esserea, or aid Darion with the hell-hound.<span style="color: magenta">"You think you can bring betrayal and murder <i>here</i>, hell-spawn? These people are under <i>my</i> protection, now."</span>She advanced after Esserea.<span style="color: magenta">"Mine is the blood of a thousand-thousand generations of Dvergar warriors, not one of whom has ever bent knee to your kind; nor ever will."</span><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>