The cleric is seemingly un-phased by the slight wounds, she simply knows she must get away from the little bastards. Elta grabs the rope behind her and starts to climb up with one hand, swinging wildly to keep the little portly bastards at bay.  She scampers upwards, her bare feet slipping against the crumbling walls,<span style="color: orange"><b>"I swear if you want anything done right.."</b></span>she hisses, wrapping the rope around one hand and starting to yank her way up slowly.  Her body screams at her, her muscles weak after-at least- weeks of neglect.  She pulls her self up slowly,  still swinging the mace at the heads of the fiends below. She notices she makes contact every so often, but for the most part , shes set on climbing.<br/><br/>She makes her way to the door, panting and breathless, as she scrambles back out.  She collapses flat on her face , panting,<span style="color: orange"><b>"Thanks for the help.." </b></span>she grumbles sarcastically.<span style="color: orange"><b> "when things got rough, you stood there and did nothing!"</b></span><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>