With Saeth pinned and struggling beneath his armoured weight, the dwarf made efforts to gag and bind her with whatever was at hand—his oiled rag for wiping down his axe, a torn scrap of tunic—anything to keep her from casting yet more magic.
She twisted and turned, causing the dwarf to grimace in pain. She scratched and bit, trying her best to get loose and bring her sword back into the fight. The dwarf’s wounds were taking their toll on the stout warrior, and he finally had no choice. He brought his armored elbow swiftly across the elf’s forehead, and knocked her out.
At last, Saeth lay motionless and he was able to retrieve the rope from his backpack and went about tying up the other two elf maids more securely removing any weapons from them, then checked on his companions. First, he went to Nicolai who laid motionless on the floor. The damage done from the witch’s attack was severe, and it appeared his friend was in grave condition.
“I’m not going to… make it…” he whispered.
Feldard moved closer to his companion. The dwarf knew how to take care of battle wounds, but the magic missile strikes were quite a different thing from axe and sword wounds. Three large scorch marks indicated the points of impact, but the bulk of the damage was internal and unseen. There was little he could do; he was no healer.
“You must find…” said the rogue, cutting the dwarf off before he could speak. He had little time, for he was fading fast. “My mother… Threshold..Fogor Isle.. tell her… tell her what we did…that I didn’t die a thief.”