Naethra was crouched behind the counter, perched awkwardly as the opening seconds of the battle played out, her not-so-cunningly-planned ambush utterly disintegrating. Red had fallen flat on her tail, Oric was doing... something. What the hells was that dwarf thinking? And Duran was just... walking away.
The familiar fear bubbled within her. This was bad. Just once, she'd like a fight to not go to hell in the first second. Everything looked like it was spiralling out of control, and with Oric and Duran both out of it, their ability to recover would be greatly hindered. She bit her lip, or tried to; she ended up with a contorted frown as even that familiar comfort had vanished. She had one idea...
She darted around the counter, rushing towards the goblins and stopping just at the edge of the oil-spill. She tried to get within ten feet of the Dancer, the one Duran had been fixated on, but the others as well if she could, and the goblin weidling a great-weapon. She was terrified, and desperately tried not to think of what happened last time she did this, or the last time she had used her borrowed magic near these goblins. The instant she was within range, standing outside the grease-spill, she screamed.
She twisted her fear and anguish and frustration into an otherwordly howl, feeling the fae magic surge around her. "Tremble, and despair," she howled in Sylvan, "your doom is upon you."
((Naethra casts Fey Presence, trying to fear each creature in a 10 foot cube. Her ideal target is the dancer and her clones, then the other goblin, then avoiding other party members. She has tried to position herself so that anyone feared will be forced to move or react into or on top of the grease spill. They must make a wisdom save to resist.))