There are a couple of muffled 'oof's and 'ow!'s from the crowd as Felix ruthlessly elbows his way through to see what juicy trouble is in progress. He'd skirted away from this part of the room because last he saw Isidor and her twin admirers were over here. and even he wasn't going to push his luck just to find out why one of them was hanging off her arm.

Now, however- he heard Harrowheart shouting Jim and Isidor's names and laughing, and he has to know- and there Jim is, bloodied and staggering on his feet, nice shirt stained with coffee; there is Isidor, immaculate and taut as a ballista spring- and there is Harrowheart... escorting away one of the pretty hangers-on?

"Sweet Sheogorath," he mutters, then lifts his voice for the second part, "what madness is this?" Ugh, Jim's a mess. The Imperial strides forward - only hesitating to duck his head deferentially to Isidor. They haven't properly met since the showdown in the crypts of Rielle, the better part of a year gone. He remembers enough not to think she thinks kindly of him - and enough to be very unnerved by the suppressed wrath emanating from her.

But Jim matters more. The conjurer's hands catch his shoulder, his chin. "Let me look at you. Mara's sake, Jim, what were you doing?" He shoots a look over his shoulder, in the direction of the retreating man (and death knight). "...And who is that?"

Who dared to mess up Jim's face?