Laszlo crouches in the darkness, eye sweeping over the guard. A torch in the left hand, broadsword unsheathed in the right, these men are at the ready, his ambush will need to be perfect. The weak point is the neck, no armor between the helm and the breastplate, he readies his sword.<br/><br/><em>"Wait,"</em>Anethrial whispers,<em>"You're not going to hurt anyone."</em>He notes the tone of command in the girl's voice, and says nothing. Sometimes it comes down to a matter of him or me, and if the girl didn't realize that, it was time to learn. Laszlo's line of work is not without ugly encounters.<br/><br/>The guard is close now, in a moment the torchlight will catch in Laszlo's eye, and he'll notice an orange orb hovering in the darkness. Colors are an easy fix, but as with Anethrial, an eye's true nature never changes. He tenses, ready to spring. Torchlight sweeps over his feet, and the guard's breath catches. Laszlo leaps, arms outstretched.<br/><br/><em>"Don't hurt him!"</em>Anethrial's voice rips through Laszlo's mind, and he falters, his sword sinking into the man's shoulder. His hand clamps over the guard's mouth, stifling the guard's pained grunt. The guard grins through the hand, and Laszlo feels a stabbing pain that rips through his chest. He looks down as his lungs begin to spasm. The guard's broadsword is sticking through his side, and his lungs are filling with blood. Red spots fill his vision, and he snarls, feeling the Rage coursing through him. His free hand grips the man's throat and squeezes, fury barely in check. His face contorts and the man's eyes narrow with concentration. He kicks frenziedly, his uninjured arm rising and pressing into Laszlo's face seeking out a target. He presses a finger through Laszlo's false eye, the illusion disappears. The guard's eyes widen with fear, and his gauntleted finger scrapes painfully in the empty socket.<br/><br/>Laszlo's rage flares, and his other hand grips the man's neck, lifting him off the ground. He squeezes with all his strength, vision fading as he suffocates. He hears a crunch, and the guard goes limp. His legs give out, and he lowers the man to the floor, hand clasping the handle of the broadsword in his side. He tugs it out, groan stifled by the blood in his lungs. He sits there in the darkness for a while, stifling his bloody wheezes with his robe, redness fading from his vision, wounds slowly closing. He rises unsteadily at last, and another flame flickers to life beside him. It bobs ahead continuing the guard's route. He hops over the trap, wheezing out the last of the blood, feeling the weaker from the loss. He wipes the blood from his cheek, and grabs Anethrial firmly by the chin, turning her face sharply to his.<br/><br/>"Don't," He gasps, "Ever, do that again."<br/><br/>He releases her, and staggers on down the hallway, still catching his breath. No time to stop.