Black smoke is thick and rising in the air, marking where the scuffle had been. Scorched earth, air rippling with heat. A wall of magically burning flame is a good deterrent against pursuit, and also serves to flag the final team's inevitable arrival, a little belated.

Dorian made it out alright, all things considered. His own magical energy somewhat low, manifesting as a spiritual kind of haggardness, although that could just be the effect of the Western Approach in general. But it's a lively kind of exhaustion, raw-boned and adrenalised while he catches his breath. There's a streak of crimson cutting a refined rivulet from his scratchy jaw down along his neck, smearing at where his robe begins.

His eyes are very bright and he brings with him a gusting smell of storm and fire, but a dimness sets in as he starts to count heads with a zigzagging gaze.