Zaknafein is already on his way, especially after seeing Elphaba dart off so quickly. The warning about another drow makes his breathe catch and his hands go directly to his sword hilts, knowing all too well that she could be dead in the seconds it would take him to get there.

What are the chances?

He can't even begin to fathom.

His flurry of motion comes to a skidding halt a few feet away when he spies that familiar plumed hat and bald head. Unlike the other two drow present, he hasn't ruined his eyes by staring at the sun so the hood of his long, black sweater is pulled up over his head and he's wearing a pair of sunglasses that were gifted to him by another kind traveler. His vision is still blurred a great deal, but the drow before him is far too distinct for him to not be able to tell who it is.

"... Jarlaxle?"