Kirin, too, had heard the screams. Without hesitation, he whipped around, pulling his knives from where they'd been minimally concealed by his belt. Ignoring his body's protests, he leaped forwards, racing back toward the Tree. The others could follow as they chose.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, silvered eyes darting around the scene. It seemed as if the cleared space was boiling, almost, the survivors Kirin had just met locked in bitter combat with a group that had to be raiders or bandits of some sort. Kirin can count at least ten of them, scattered around--men, mostly, but he can see an orc or two, and at least one race he doesn't recognize at all.

He snarls, throwing himself at the nearest raider, bodily knocking him away from his downed opponent. The Man just laughs at him, condescending and mocking, as Kirin raises his blades, angling them away from his body. He doesn't like the looks of the curved scimitar the man is carrying. Weapons in Radasanth street fighting tend to be whatever's easily at hand, or easily concealed. None of them are stupid enough to pick a fight with the Guards on the regular, and they're the only ones who routinely use swords.

The man twirls his sword, grinning, the epitome of confidence, and Kirin shrugs. He doesn't need to fight the man, not really. He can just--kill him. That in mind, he bares his teeth right back, a dazzling snarl, and closes the distance. The man keeps the sword pointed directly at him, just waiting for his move, and they circle each other, searching for openings. Eventually, Kirin's opponent loses patience and charges, thrusting forward to pierce Kirin's heart. It's a difficult move to anticipate, and an impossible one to block.

Luckily, Kirin doesn't need to block, not a knife-fighter like himself. He bats the flat of the blade away with one hand as he rolls sideways, coming forward and to his feet in a lunge that brings him inside the other's range. They grapple, briefly; the man brings the pommel of his sword heavily into Kirin's ribs and he gasps with pain, but Kirin has two knives and an eternity of rage. His opponent falls, a dozen deep cuts littering his chest and stomach, and does not rise again. With a wince, Kirin straightens from where he bent to cut the man's throat and looks around the clearing, trying to assess where his help could be used most.