The bigger the score, the more fun the ensuing chaos. Astarion waits, biding his time, watching skulking shadows gather as they discreetly coast along in Ellis' wake. He's no shivering grandmother, nor sickly child clutching a purseful of coins, but even the strong on their own are someone's prey: rats will swarm to sink their teeth into a larger meal.

It's only when the street hooks in a twisting curve that the gathered flock shows their hand in blocking Ellis' exit: a sturdy trio altogether, only one of the pack is leaner and longer, hunched forward to hide the fact that he doesn't quite match up in silhouette to the others. Not that it matters, they can preen and posture all they like, but the moment they tip their hand by growling out the fact that Ellis has stepped onto their turf, that's the moment Astarion lunges like a cat from shadow— claws outstretched in twin daggers, both plunging into the meat of the nearest thug's side, and eliciting a howl of agony.

The scrawnier vermin, startled by it, seems more inclined to leap back than help his own kin. The third, however, a flat-faced grunt only owing to the fact that he looks as though his nose has been broken more than a few times with almost startling effectiveness, takes his outrage to Ellis instead, bull-rushing forward with only his fists as a weapon.

Might be a good time to stall for time, Ellis. However you can.