The Archduke is dead. This might mean it's too late to do anything and he should focus on what he's doing here, but it also means that the situation in Westcrown is both worse that he expected and not already being handled. It's probably just a riot. It could be much, much worse than that.

"Retreat, retreat, retreat, prepare for teleport," he calls out.

Valentia kills the man who shot the archduke, and then takes an arrow in the lung and falls.

Llei bursts into the room and clears it, killing three men, and takes stock.

- Archduke Blanxart unambiguously dead. Servants dead or fleeing. Valentia is - not breathing.

Pedro-Lluís is breathing. He slings him over his shoulder and runs out the servants' entrance, sprinting around the side of the building.

Stop rioting. Go home immediately. The primary temple of Abadar offers sanctuary for the night, for anyone injured or caught outside.

Everyone hears that, somehow, over screams and the sounds of battle. Further back, away from the house, the people at the back of the mob start to trickle away. The people in the manor already, the people killing and dying, are a little busy right now.

He should have fired at the first man with a torch as soon as Arn said it was acceptable. He shouldn't have hesitated. He hadn't wanted to cut the whole crowd down. He'd wanted a line. 

He sees a servant running across the grounds, and realizes that there's nothing in the cellar left to defend. He yells to Ramirez, jumps through one of the broken windows, and begins looking for a place to scale the fence.

His party executes the procedure perfectly, joining hands for the Teleport within the round, and he Teleports them all, not back to the fort, but to Vigil. He can't quite make it from the fort to Westcrown in one hop, and he needs to make a report anyway. 

"Unknown emergency in Westcrown, Archduke Blanxart is dead, scrying now," he tells his secretary, who is only slightly more startled than the adventuring party that just appeared in his office. Jean is already casting a Greater Scrying. "—riots," he says. At least it's not Geb. "The mob has overrun Charthagnion Manor. Make sure the archmages are alerted, I'm going in." Even alone and relatively low on spells an eighth-circle wizard can make short and hopefully nonlethal work of a mob of commoners. Protection from Fire. Air Bubble. Protection from Arrows. Teleport back to the same foyer where he was earlier that evening—

Fuck this. Limited Wish imitating Quench.

There is no more fire.

... still a lot of smoke, though. He casts Gust of Wind and flies upstairs towards the cries for help.

He casts Wall of Stone to make a bridge from this window to a window of the neighboring house. "You can't stay here," he tells the men, gesturing at the newly-made bridge. "More help is on the way." He almost asks them whether there's anyone else alive upstairs, but Detect Thoughts is faster and more accurate. The interior walls look thin enough not to block it.

Well, that was a waste of a Limited Wish. He'll save the figuring out whether it was actually a good idea given his state of information at the time for the inevitable very long failure analysis of this entire night constitutional convention.

He flies out the window and straight up, high above the city, to see if there's anywhere else that needs his aid.

Below him, through the dark and the smoke still rising from what's left of Charthagnion manor, Jean can see Westcrown burning.

Aniol finds a spot with a tree near the fence, and drags himself and his nephew both up it while harried by every mobster they pass. They bloody him but they don't get him off his feet. He leaps over the fence from a treebranch and sprints into the night, Xavi riding piggyback. He sort of means to keep going all the way to the temple of Abadar - he knows where one is - but he stops when he's clear of the crowd and finds an empty little connective alley in which to stop and check on the boy.

Xavi had his wrists tangled in Aniol's collar, and his left leg propped up by the sword sheath while his right foot was trapped in the crook of his left knee. He was on there very securely and didn't slip when Aniol jumped, waded through the mob, climbed, and jumped again. And he didn't slip off when he died, either.

Aniol puts the sword back in its sheath, moves Xavi around so he can cradle him in his arms, and proceeds to the temple more sedately.

After he scales the fence and leaps over half the crowd, Llei runs, and runs, and runs, afraid to stop anywhere, lest a completely unrelated mob try to tear apart the devilspawn. Eventually he ducks into an alley, ignoring the screams of the city around him, and lays Pedro-Lluís on the ground. It's raining, by this point. The boy has stopped breathing. Llei's mind stumbles over Erastil's name, and then Dispater's, barely half a prayer.

"Breathe," he orders, but the boy does not. He gives him his own breath, but it doesn't help.

He cannot see, for a moment. Part of that is the remnants of the smoke. Not all of it.