As more soldiers shouldered in and the flames reached the walls and began to lick, Aza decided that, you know, sewers probably weren't<em>so</em>awful, at least not in comparison to a burning hovel filled with butchered and dying men. Her fur was streaked with red again thanks to all of Dean's throat slashing, and she could hardly breathe from the reek of spilled oil and the shadowy grip that dragged her relentlessly into the midst of the action. She thrashed and snapped at Dean’s tenebrous tendrils, but accomplished exactly nothing; they had a constricting grip on her, but her little teeth and claws somehow closed and scratched on empty air. Someone's sword sang past her closely enough to shave a few hairs from her puffed up tail, directly after which someone else's armored elbow caught her in the side of the head. By then she was yelping loudly, the high-pitched sound contributing nicely to the general hysteria, and Methuseld herself had joined the party. Aza liked the look on the blonde's face about as little as she liked anything else in all this madness.<br/><br/>And Donovan might be prepared to die in this unglorious hole, but Aza most certainly wasn't. Unfortunately, in her terror, there was no energy at all seeping from her; she wouldn't have the mental concentration or fortitude to use it for herself anyway, even if any of her tricks were at all suited for a clusterfuck like this one.<em>LET GO LET GO LET GO</em>she screamed at Dean’s mind, not knowing if he was even capable of receiving or processing such a message in his seemingly beserk state. Donovan and Methuseld would probably hear it too, but neither of them had the fox swathed in his or her murky grasp.