Methuseld covered her face with a metal-plated arm as caltrops flew towards her, some flying past and some bouncing harmlessly off of her steel plate armor. She figured these weren't just a distraction - assassins liked to coat them in poison and wait for an unsuspecting guard. She'd seen it plenty of times in her role as pet bitch of the Vizier. "<em>Watch your footing!</em>" She bellowed out, her extraordinarily commanding voice cutting through the din of battle, the roar of flames, and the grunts and screams of men. Every man in that room, no matter what he was doing, heard his commander's warning. Steel eyes affixed themselves onto Dean. "That all you got, thief!?" In a crouching run, the woman scooped up caltrops with both armored hands and threw them back at him, simultaneously clearing the way for her to get closer and distracting him.<br/><br/>Apparently it didn't work well enough, though. Soon the entire room...<em>shifted</em>... in a way she hadn't seen before, ever. Fear welled inside her... might have surfaced, too, had the curse not had other plans - she felt nothing but the urge to kill. Demon magics... illusions... She hated the blasted things. But they would only delay his fate, not change it. Around her, she heard the men uttering gasps of fear, confusion, shock. "<em>Stay focused, men! Their tricks and illusions won't save them! FIGHT ON!</em>" Again, like a battle-horn, the fierce shout cut through the battle. Every single man heard her, every single man felt compelled to obey. Not through magic, not through fear. Only through sheer prestige, utter and unquestionable authority, total mastery. The men redoubled their efforts despite their fear, surrounding the occupants of the house and attacking together. One-on-one, they were far outmatched against the two powerhouses - the armored man and his shadow. But fighting together, despite their losses, these men were formidable in their own right. Not mere fodder, not just fish in a barrel. Even as they died their companions redoubled their efforts, attempted to exploit weaknesses and openings, attempted to kill or maim or stop in any way possible these thieves.<br/><br/>And their deaths were sweet succor for the Curse. It devoured the sight of blood, of pain, of killing; poured all that energy and hate and pain into Methuseld's body, filling her with nothing but an intense rage, an all-pervasive fury that blinded her to any other needs or cares and made her want to attack, attack, attack. No dumb rage was this, but Methuseld unleashed, free of all other desires, all pain and suffering, all worries and fears of what may come. She was blindingly fast now, astoundingly strong. The blush, too, spread across her body. The dual nature of the curse, the Djinn's little game. The already beautiful woman, moving fast as lightning and hard as a tidal wave, was becoming more and more irresistible. And should a man's flesh somehow manage to taste her, he wouldn't be able to stop, much as she was unable to stop killing.<br/><br/>A blade sang in the darkness, freed from its sheath at long last. Cold, dead metal aimed itself at Dean, eyes poised. "<em>Kill...</em>" Whispered the Curse.