Having watched her attempt to escape the escalating violence of the common room, Isair was unsurprised when the bard was apprehended by the gaggle of drunken men, though not particularly pleased; her scream told him all he needed to know about what had befallen her. He rose from his seat immediately, and dropped into a partial crouch, closing the gap between him and the small gang at the wall cautiously. The chances of them noticing him were slim, as they focused all their unwanted attention on the girl, but Isair saw no reason to take chances when at least one had a knife at the performer's throat.

As he approached the group, Isair unsheathed both his blades and scrutinized the best position from which to interrupt the handful of men. Eventually, there was enough of an opening in the seething crowd, shifting chaotically with violence, that he could position himself behind the man that addressed the girl and seemed to hold charge of the group. Isair circled briefly, then closed the gap swiftly, sidling up behind the gang leader. Without a word, he raised his left fist, clutching his sword, and smashed the hilt into the back of the man's head, immediately rewarded with a wet crunch accompanied by a small spatter of blood landing on Isair's hand with liquid warmth. Before the first drunkard had even lost his balance, likely unconscious and at the least stunned, the right hand had slipped around the body and thrust the blade into the arm of the knife wielder: as the tip punctured his skin and slid cleanly in to poke out the other side of his bicep, it was his turn to scream, as he dropped the knife and frantically twisted away from the assailing steel, his thrashing intensifying his agony until Isair retracted the blade with a sudden jerk.

The wounded man clutched his arm desperately and backed up against the wall while the other who had been subject to Isair's ministrations lay in a crumpled heap. The pair that still stood, however, regarded him furiously.