[Quazarn] covers his face with his hands -- wipes them downward -- and dashes away, totally oblivious to the fact that he has not, in fact, turned invisible.
Creature waves goodbye to Quazarn. "Bye...bye...pointy..head"
Quazarn hotfoots it for the tunnel, pursued by whatever the hell a disenchanter is. The circle of gawking fighters parts for him -- puzzling given his invisibility -- and he's almost to the tunnel when the first goon clomps up the ramp.
Then the second and third.
And the fourth.
Sixth, and surely last?
Only if you don't count the seventh.
The goons sniff the air as they enter the arena, catching the sweat of battle. Despite the shouted commands of the dwarven wrangler, they begin stamping and shoving. Three goons charge off into the arena, swinging their fists wildly as they go. Two others nearly trample Quazarn on their way to the heap of unconscious fighters.
But two still remain, standing between the warlock and the tunnel. Implausibly enough, one of them seems to be staring right at him.
[I must consider my next move very carefully and, as such, it may take me a couple-three hours. I'm at work.]
Quazarn, who is brilliant and handsome, doesn't miss a beat. "The enchanter!" he cries to the goons, gesturing imperiously back at a dude who is currently overjoyed with himself. "Get him, GET HIM!"
[Quazarn's Command skill is 83%; I rolled a 65.]
The goons blink at Quazarn's stentorian voice and commanding mien, staring back and forth between the warlock and the other fighter. The goons huddle up, knock their heads together, and begin shoving. Their wrangler, red-faced and screaming, hops on one leg, pointing at Quazarn, but they ignore him. For the moment anyway.
The Dirty Deezen on the other hand, Quazarn's unwilling decoy, is now extremely focused on the warlock. His happy-go-lucky grin drops away, and a fell light shines in his eyes. He tugs a cauliflowered ear, points at Quazarn and makes a violent gesture the meaning of which is impossible to mistake.
Dr Rotwang! [Quazarn's Command skill is 83%; I rolled a 65.]
[NB. To truly command them you'd need to roll Monster Friend as well. Dunno how lucky you're feeling.]
Quazarn rolls his eyes at the goons and attempts to sneak past. [Sneak 29% is better than 4%, so I'll try that...wow, good thing, too!]
Once past the goons, Quazarn applies his astonishing mental energies towards formulating a plan. He just needs an idea to build on -- a spark for the fire, as it were...
[Max, can I roll Clue and get some sort of assist in building an escape plan for us all?]
[You can always roll whatever you want. I'll let you know if what you're trying to do is bogus.]
[Clue 28%; I rolled at 47.]
Quazarn grasps his prodigiously-pointed crown in exasperation and focus. "think, think think think -- !"
...but no idea comes.
He peeks back out into the fray.
Ignoring several lewd suggestions and low slanders from the Dirty Deezen Quazarn sneaks past the goons and wins free to the ramp. A dozen apothecary goblins huddle there with stretchers and spray cans of smelling salts, waiting for a break in the fighting.
Amidst all the bedlam Quazarn seems to have avoided all of his pursuers save one: peering out into the arena the warlock feels tingling sensation as something prods his shoulder. Looking back, he faces the disenchanter. The beast probes him with its wriggling trunk, poking the tip into each of his ears in turn. Disappointed by Quazarn's puny magical energy it bleats sadly and trots back to its pen.
Recovering from the sudden shock of being felt up by the disenchanter, Quazarn sneers after it, "Go tell your friends, you third-rate louse."
He quickly gets to the business of staying the hell out of harm's way and looking for a way to assist his teammates.