"The Count is too modest. To hear tale of it, he is one of the most prodigious healers in all Kenabres."

His eyes go unfocused for a moment. "I suppose I can hardly contradict such a beautiful woman."

"I would not presume to tell you how much to value your own life or the repairability of your manor but I would tend to recommend the Delay Poison if you have one."

It is almost certainly not his own life in danger. (He absolutely cannot say that.)

"Lord Clydwell, may I have your hand?"

 A drunken nobleman offers the Count his hand. "Isn't it rather early for that, Daeran?"

"Delay Poison. No, I am afraid it is not. If you would do me the honor of fetching Lord Korbinian and Lady Alwine?"

 He straightens up. "Of course, Your Excellency."

Daeran repeats this process. "I believe it prudent to preserve my remaining spells for the battle to come. Might I enquire as to whether your party is in need of any healing?"

(That's... one of the people who detected as Evil before, and two more people who also detect Evil. What is with this place? Aren't these people crusaders? Is everyone here Evil, and some of them just too weak to show it?)

(From the direction of the front door, the sounds of the demons battering on the door have been getting louder.)

"I did a channel just recently."

"Very well." The corners of his mouth twist up into something that could almost be mistaken for a smile. "May you fight bravely and well, then."

He raises his right hand in the air. "Bless."

"How intriguing! I had assumed you were some form of sorcerer, but the abilities you have thus far demonstrated seem inconsistent with this hypothesis. Would you mind answering a few questions—"

He fixes her with an icy glare. "Yes, I would mind."

Blai picks out the five best-bet weapons and the sixth in case he can stretch that far. "Weapons Against Evil."

It is more of a stretch — more like reaching out to brush his fingertips against the very edge of his magic than like being able to get a firm hold on it — but he can, just barely, fit in a sixth.

The warriors Daeran identified take up position just past Woljif's patch of Grease, accompanied by Seelah. Nenio prepares to cast her Create Pit. Camellia casts some sort of blessing on Lord Clydwell. Lann nocks an arrow.

The last door into the ballroom begins to shake.

Blai's up front too as a melee guy. And as soon as the door bursts down, he deploys his Prayer.

The first demons through the door are a snarling abrikandilu and an overlarge schir! They both trip on the Grease and fall on their faces. 

Create Pit, targeting the hallway from the main door to the ballroom, where most of the demons are still massed.

A second abrikandilu (one of the demons caught on the ballroom side of the pit) steps carefully onto the Grease, only to get distracted by the polished plate that Lord Clydwell has secured to his arm as if it were a shield. It throws itself at it, gnashing its teeth viciously. From behind the pit, a dretch drops a Stinking Cloud on the chokepoint at the entrance.

The nearest abrikandilu does not seem to have been distracted by any of the shiny objects nearby so he will just hit it with his mace.

It does not like that! This was supposed to be easy! Why do these people even care so much about protecting their stupid awful art?? 

Lann sends his arrows flying at the leading dretch.

Behind them, the harpist starts to sing. It feels a little like a Guidance, but constantly present, rather than needing to be used deliberately.

His mind is filled with a sudden flash of awareness regarding the demons' planned tactics for breaking down the door! How useful. He settles for a Boneshaker on the strongest-looking demon.

The overlarge Schir manages to pull itself to its feet and starts attempting to skewer Blai with its halberd.

Counterargument: mace.

Ow! That's a very persuasive counterargument! Instead it will attempt to skewer someone else. (It has not occurred to this schir that Blai might have any interest in protecting the other people here.)

Cough cough cough! Fucking dretches.