"Go help Fiaethe," it was the first time he'd addressed Aeotha since erupting into the square. "Those Drow are going to recover any second."
If Elemmire was concerned about her ankles, or the fact that they were suddenly bound, she gave no sign of it. Skandra was waiting for her to let loose with that magic of hers. It wasn't happening. If she was here to kill Fiaethe, why not simply be done with it? She'd already given him the answer. Trying to get him to stand down, stand aside. Whatever she could do. Skandra didn't know what he'd done to deserve such courtesy from her, but she was trying all the same, and he wasn't going to argue the point with her. Something about her demeanor suggested he should go ahead and count his blessings being alive as he was. She'd made no such move to spare Aeotha's life.
"Don't argue," he snapped. "Get back, now!"
All around the courtyard, chaos. Cots were overturned and shattered. Bloody elves with missing eyes and ears, missing teeth and tongues, were crawling toward whatever they thought would provide safety. Soldiers and assassins alike on their knees, struggling to recover. Skandra thought he'd been incredibly lucky. Some were obviously dead in this ruined courtyard. Some were twisted, eyes turned to glass, necks resting at odd angles. The fact that anyone at all had survived that madness was incredible enough. The fact that he was still able to walk? A blessing. Clouds of dust were still rising into the air, obscuring his sight for areas of the courtyard.
The pain in his side made him wince as he strode forward. First one foot, and then the other, each one feeling closer and closer to a condemned man's uneven stride. Elemmire seemed satisfied standing where she was, how she was, and Skandra had a thought as to why. It must have been child's play for her to break out of those thin confines. It would have been child's play for her to kill all of them There was at least one person here that she didn't want to kill. He still had to ask himself why. The lack of sleep. No, he'd have heard if she were sneaking out at night. He would have known. He liked to think he would have known. There was no reason to think that was the case, was it?
"Don't do this," he called.
"This is your last chance," was all she responded.
A second. Two. He kept advancing. That was all the answer she needed. Elemmire's feet tore through their prison as though it were made of cloth. Skandra's second hand seized the hilt of his strange weapon. The edges were brought to bear. Skandra could see her rushing toward him through the gap between blades. All of a sudden - he wished there'd been more warning - Elemmire began to spin. He wouldn't have thought someone could twist that fast, and run forward, but she was doing it. Nothing about her had implied the grace of an athlete before. Skandra's feet slid farther apart. She was perhaps ten yards away when he felt it.
A blast of wind.
It was nothing he'd ever felt before. Couldn't be magic. Then what? The wind seemed to have thousands of fingers, all of them folding around him. Crushing him. Skandra could see it at last - dust and filth was swirling into the column of wind, winding around the courtyard as though a great serpent had taken up residence. The blades of his new weapon were thrust forward, as strong a cut as he could summon, and the result was more than satisfactory. That tearing column of wind split in two - each streaming to either side of him - and began pummeling without mercy the faces of a pair of buildings.
Planks were stripped away. An unfortunate warrior was sucked into the snarling vortex. Skandra never saw what became of him. He was simply gone. Shattered glass was flung into the air. Beyond it all, still out of reach, that beautiful face was hidden by fabric and wrath. Skandra's hood covered his face again at the tug of a hand.
He plunged into that forsaken column of wind, laying about him wildly with the sword, and splitting away from the stream even more wild tentacles that began to assault the courtyard.