[TurinTurambar]

His interest in the apparent coming melee having subsided, Turin lounges in a chair near the front of the bar, trying to look over David's shoulder as he furiously hacks away at his laptop muttering something about "I'll give you 'low poly-count', you as*h**e..."

"Ow! Hey! That thing bit me! Hey someone get this... Ow! Ow! OOoowwww!"

He briefly considers drawing Anglachel from it's sheath, but seeing as David hasn't saved his work in the last half-hour, and the black metal blade would surely melt his processor at this proximity he decides against it. Besides, now there are three of them on his left boot and one is on its hind legs making a dreadful honking sound and snapping at his testicles...

"Hey now!"

Realising drastic measures are now called for, he hops one-legged over to the air-lock, kicks the nearest five of the little bastardized honking rodents into it and quickly spaces them.... <poof>... pale pink mist.

They're still coming. Turin's quick but he's not that quick. He wraps his Elvish Cloak around him and leaps onto the nearest table. The Army of El_Phil mills about confusédly for a few moments and eventually gives up the attack, their opponent having become invisible.

"You will feel Traitorous Death on the nape of your neck, El_Phil..." he mutters to himself. "I swear it."

"Now go away ya little Varments, I need another Oatmeal Stout."