“Never!” she roared in abject rage as she lunged forward, only to have her wild swing met with a skillful parry. But she quickly regained control of her anger, knowing that it would give him the advantage. Circling away from his guards, who stood ready to seize her at the first opportunity, she shot Torryn a glance to see him following Haryk with his bow, just waiting for the opening to fire without endangering her, and warned him off; “This is my fight. Just keep them from interfering.” Turning her attention back to the haughty elf lord she mocked; “I’ll die before you get me in that wedding bed… and that will leave you with out your prize, because only another worthy Mistrivvin can claim this moonblade… if there is still another one!” “Come now,” Haryk snickered dismissively as he tried to maneuver Syn toward his waiting guards, “surely you’re not going to force me to raise you from the dead just to bed you… I’ve been rejected by women before, but that’s a bit extreme.” “Not even that would do it,” she spat venomously as she moved in to attack, this time with the elegant grace of bladesong’s deadly ballet. “Fortunately it will not come to that,” he announced overconfidently as he retreated out of reach and spoke a brief incantation in Aragrakh, old high wyrm, a language used only in the casting of arcane spells, while holding forth a small iron rod. She recognized the hold spell that would have turned her into a living statue, leaving her unable to move and completely defenseless, but her moonblade instantly responded as a shimmering sphere of magic nullifying energy enveloped her, defeating his spell. “Not so fortunate as you thought,” she taunted as she pressed her attack against the haughty elf lord who quickly realizing that she outmatched his skill with a blade, so if he couldn’t use magic against her, he was going to need help to defeat her. “Take her,” he cried to his guards who had stood by, fearing to interfere under the threat of Torryn’s bow, but leaped forward on command. However, they barely took a single step before his first arrow struck, masterfully targeted just below the first guard’s armored breastplate to pierce his upper thigh and sending him staggering backward ten feet to land in a crumbled heap, with the second guard following a heartbeat later, a similarly well placed shot leaving him in the same condition. Stunned by how quickly what he envisioned would be a simple choir had gone so wrong, fully expecting her to give up her folly and obey as elven law required, Haryk stumbled backward as he tried to escape Syn’s deadly dance of whirling steel. Tripping over a root, he suddenly found himself flat on his back with her blade at his throat while his was pinned under her foot. Desperately looking to the gruff human tracker, he demanded; “Are you just going to stand there… what am I paying you for?”