Act 1. Masks

Briar spotted a coiled length of rope near a stall and muttered a sharp incantation under his breath. A shimmering spectral hand burst into existence—Mage Hand—and zipped through the air, clutching the rope and floating it toward him. He reached for it, eyes flicking between the rope and the advancing Pale Moth.

But the distraction cost him.

With a flash of steel, the Moth lunged, slashing wildly. Briar twisted and ducked, narrowly dodging one cut, then the next. The enchanted hand hesitated, hovering between them. One of the Moth’s swings went wide—slashing straight through the rope and severing it mid-air. The halves dropped uselessly to the dirt.

"Damn it," Briar hissed.

Rolling backward, he snatched the longer half of the rope off the ground and sprang to his feet. Blood still trickled from the gash on his chest, but his grip tightened around the rope and his dagger. He crouched, balanced, ready to dodge or counter as the Moth came at him again with another flurry of vicious strikes.

The majordomo's near disdain shocked Lunareth. He was used to the gregariousness of the cloister, the garrulousness of the tavern. The stoic ascetism of the harshly-dressed and severely-spoken marshall-at-arms caused his train of thought to not merely be stalled, but completely derailed.

"Re…read?" Luna responded, his voice cracking noticeably on the last syllable, making him sound more like a human teenage girl than a moon-elf of many decades. Swallowing audibly and clearing his throat, Luna tried to recover. "Read? Of course! I have studied in the Halls of the Moon for many a year, and not only am fluent in both common and Elvish, but can read both Thorass and Espruar."

Check my diction, he wants?, Luna thought with a soupçon of umbrage. Enunciating with an almost exaggerated quality, Luna continues N'Tel'Que'Tethira su onal Tel-quessir?

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Results:
Won. (Choose what will be your role in the staff )
Lost. (You will have little to no freedom of movement during the party)
[/ooc]

Briar
Suddenly, the Pale Moth faltered, darting a piercing look into Briar’s eyes as if weighing the danger against the risk of staying. With a swift, fluid movement, the assassin turned on his heel and darted back into the bustling market. The Moth was retreating—choosing flight over further aggression—intent on losing himself in the labyrinth of city streets.

Aeeing the tide of the fight turning and the rope severed, the Pale Moth’s confidence faltered. With a sharp breath and a wild look in his eye, he spun on his heel and bolted, shoving past a stunned merchant and knocking over a crate of apples in his scramble to escape.

Briar didn’t hesitate.
"Not a chance," he growled, and tore after him.

His injured chest screamed with every stride, but adrenaline dulled the pain. The crowd parted as Briar barreled forward, his boots pounding against the cobblestones. Just as the Moth reached the edge of the market, aiming to slip into a narrow side alley, Briar hurled himself forward in a full-body tackle.

They both crashed to the ground hard—dust and grit flying, limbs tangled.

Briar landed on top, jamming his forearm into the Moth’s back to pin him down. He yanked the man’s arm behind his back with practiced force, his other hand pressing the dagger just enough against the Moth’s ribs to make a point.

"You are not going anywhere," Briar snarled through gritted teeth. "Don’t move a godsdamned muscle."