Stepping out into the dark- that is familiar. The tight quarters, the smell of blood old and new- for a moment Zevran is back in the cell strung up like meat, both eyes fixed on the middle distance. Only for a moment. Glass shatters without shattering, magic is hurled and he? Slips into the shadows. This is his home, where he stalks and strikes, where he does his best work. A moment to apply a vial of magebane to both of his blades is taken as he slinks around the edges of the room. Warriors are men with blades and a problem- but mages?

They need to die first, and die quickly. Darting between ice and lightening, remaining unseen- it is much like a month ago, a decade ago- easy enough and familiar enough for him to settle into the skin of the Ombra Nera without missing a beat. Slipping in quickly to cut as many of the mages as possible he darts through the huddle, blades flashing along joints and ribs as he skitters back to the shadows along the other side.