Ogdurnan takes a second to size up the bashers moving towards him, as well as the sod standing between them. Then he musters up the lowest voice he can (a mid alto) and shouts at one of the bashers, throwing his voice so that it seems to come from the genasi. You leatherheads had best run home to your jinkskirts if you don't want to end up in the dead-book! I'll cut you good with this sword of mine, I will!
The group drawn into the strange affairs draws their weapons as its clear those surrounding them mean to attack. Ogdurnan is quick to attack, his power dealing one of the tougher rabble a mean strike as it mental directs attention to Rakaneth. Most of the bashers are peery to charge in, call out to the others "Put these sods in the Dead-Book!" One throwing a dagger at Yaga, which the Bladeling easily ducks other while another finds its mark in the back of the goblin wearing overalls. The creature croaks and grabs his back, falling to the ground as his friend turns to grab him "Torno!"
Fuming from being blindsided some how, the mean looking basher Ogdurnan hit rushes into the fray until the rest. Wielding a mean looking iron pipe he takes a swing at Rakaneth. The metal clang against stone rings in the small street as the Genasi easily side steps the naive attack. The Githyanki draws his weapons but holds his ground, letting the rabble do the dirty work for now.
Looping his pick back onto his belt, Chrys strides forward down the northwestern fork. Setting himself between their attackers and the shattered gem he pulls on of his steel javelins from his back and returns the volley of the man who attacked Yaga. To the men he as never seen before he speaks in their minds "Hold fast, we must defend each or die alone."
Alfgar turns as his prize fighter's bodyguard falls down from getting shot in the back and angrily looks at the thugs attacking the group from the south. You bastards! He mutters to himself as he starts stalking towards the southern basher and his groupies, Luckily, I ain't paid him yet . . . still . . .
Come on, Rahgon! We gotta fight our way past these addle-cove cutter wannabes!
The small human lurches forward, attacking the nearest basher with his short sword and dagger. He seems quite adept with them, cutting into the poor sod's unprotected stomach with a brutish sweep, stepping back a bit as the entrails spill all over the pavement. One down . . .
Chrys' javelin drives back the man a step as it grazes his shoulder, a foul curse escaping his lips. Mean while Alfgar's charge surprises the group behind as the little man rushes boldly into the enemy. Catching the first man in front of him completely by surprise, the poor sod can only croak form a gut wound before going down.
Laying down his dead friend, Rahgon lets out a battle cry as he rushes into the fight with Alfgar. The goblin leaps into the air to bring iron hard fist cracking down on the man's jaw with a sickening crunch. The fuming goblin stands over the wretch and growls "Pike it you barmy sod, get ready for the Dead-Book!"
"What was that?" Ogdurnan quips at the basher that attacked Rakaneth, reinforcing his words with a bit of magic. "I've seen gully dwarves with more finesse! Are you sure you're cut out to be a thug? Maybe your boss should keep you on as a shining example of how not to fight."
The basher's errant dagger glances off the wall behind Yaga, but though it misses, it's enough to decide the bladeling on a course of action. "You'll not be cuttin' me, you silly scrounglings. Not when the spirits are mine to call."
With that, Yaga leaps into a swirling dance. Spirits of lightning gather to his blades as he spins until, at last, he releases a long knife at the nearest enemy. The knife seems to grow wings and flap for the basher, becoming a streaking bolt of lightning as it goes, until it hits with a splash of power that detonates like a lightning strike. Both the Basher and the nearest Rag-Picker are caught up in the blast, and Yaga smiles. He reaches out his hand, and the his long knife again sprouts wings, returning to his hand like a hunting hawk after a successful strike.
"This one had know quarrel with you until you decided to attack. This one knows the ways of the hive, and you will soon be penned into the dead book, such a pity," Rakaneth says, his sword leaving its sheath seemingly of its own accord and with blinding speed. As the blade lashes out, the air seems to grow colder around the genasi as an ethereal shield forms around his opponent.