If there was one thing that all that training with their mother was good for, it was sharpening instincts, after all, nothing keeps one on their toes better than a murderous parental unit hell-bent on ensuring your growth (and by extension survival) no matter the cost. Because of this Mibbet didn’t even think before choppy was raised, deflecting the thrown dagger with the flat of the oversized blade.

As you can no doubt imagine, the duo were less than chuffed at the idea of somebody throwing pointies their way (one does not simply throw a dagger at a Crown Princess without good treason,) and turned to glower in the direction of her erstwhile assassins, just about ready to go full on Rosalind Von Harmsworth on their asses, (or any other bodily components that came within chopping range, a radius that she could be surprisingly creative about extending when angered.)

At that moment Nick began to realise that maybe accepting this job was not a choice that led to long-term prospects and plotting a viable exit strategy, a plan that was somewhat hampered by Belinda taking a stone shot to the heel from a rather unamused-looking construct, resulting in exactly the outcome one would expect when they suddenly find themselves on only one high heel upon a rooftop, or maybe not, she had jammed the remaining heel in to hold on, (that girl must have leg muscles that would make an orc blush).

While Dipper found himself snagged by a Hellcat of all things. At that point, Nick did what he did best, and made a break for it while the going was good. Leaving his teammates in the dust as he fled. He knew he should have become a bard, the girls loved a bard, (then again such things usually required you to learn at least to pretend to play an instrument, and who had time for that?

His plans for escape hit a sudden snag, in the form of an Owl-bear that was more than happy to continue Ursine around with the laws of physics to glide from rooftop to rooftop, intent on soaring until he was sore. He was very quickly regretting pursuing loot over lute, when a sizeable hybrid slammed into him, pinning him to the ground, and squeezing him harder than a toddler who just encountered their first hamster, but with far less chance of being bitten badly for their troubles.

He squirmed desperately to get free, as his eyeballs struggled valiantly not to pop out for a trip, a struggle they mercifully won, though that was no thanks to the Owl-Bear's efforts.

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Dipper ran like hell, a skill that up until this point he was peerless in the use of, but up until now the pursuit had usually been in the form of rich men who could likely afford to lose whatever he swiped, and guards, who were paid enough to chase thieves, but not catching them, oh dear me no, nothing good came of actually catching things (especially just before proposals, or retirement for some reason.)

Neither really prepares one for about half a tonne of infernal predator barreling down on you, losing it in a crowd? Lovely theory assuming the crowd is somehow dense enough to lose said enraged flaming furball in, they will NOT be dense enough to stick around the area between said irate hellion and their prey of choice, beyond a half seconds gawk time at most.

So his usual tactic there didn’t work, how about ducking through a gap in a fence? Well now there’s a Hell-cat dragging the burning remains of a fence behind it following you, and congratulations, it is now angry.

“Think Dipper, think,” he muttered to himself as he fled, the problem here largely being the fact he had made his entire career on the basis of letting others do the thinking for him.

He briefly pondered his last resort tactic and popped a cover for his absolute last really, really, desperate times escape route, the sewers. He hated them, but nothing ever followed him down there, he quickly closed the cover, his heart in his mouth, and tried his level best to calm down. Said calmness lasting all of twenty seconds, before he heard an ominous scratch, scratch, scratch, trying to get at him.

Normally a cat mewing and scratching at your hiding place is kinda cute but usually said cat is not the size of a small horse, with claws that would give hook swords performance anxiety, and most importantly weren’t on fire.

Wait.......... On fire? Dipper looked around the extremely methane-rich environment he was currently using as cover, remembered that workers never bought a match down here, and suddenly remembered why he let others do his thinking pretty much all the time because he was very, very bad at it. He looked once more and started to run like hell, as behind him the cover came loose, and a flaming head popped down to see what lay beneath, a question to which the only answer was a BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM.

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Belinda was stuck, her heel wedged in place, as a polite-looking young man in rather ill-fitting armour approached. She struggled to get free, but if she tried to leave behind her remaining heel it was a very long way down, so she kept an eye out as he approached, hoping she would be able to con him into letting her go, he did seem a little wet behind the ears, so this should be easy. She started slipping a knife from her garter as he approached.

“Ah rescue at last,” she said as she bade her time, “any chance you could get me out of here, I’d be grateful” She even threw in an eyelash flutter (she hated doing that, it always led to trouble down the line, but he’d be dead soon enough, so it hardly mattered if he was fool enough to fall for it.)

“Help me out of here and I’ll really owe you one,” she tried.

Errol seemed to ponder for a moment, before choosing the response that all sneaky types dread most. “Sorry Miss I don’t think My Mum would like that very much.”