After his initial riposte, the Kinraven and Masagh were too often in too close of quarters for him to comfortably attack; that was the downside of having an ally, even a temporary one. They might not remain allies for long, but Aurin wasn't in the habit of back-stabbing without a damned good reason.
While he was paused from the action, though, he was not idle. He conjured sounds and even smells for the vampiric senses of soldiers closing in from several directions. He vaulted for a better vantage.
"Ew," he mumbled to himself when Masagh got literally in the shit. He might not allow himself to smell the sewage, but he knew it was there. He steadied himself; vomiting now wasn't going to help anyone. At least for the short period of their exchange, lengthened as time often was by battle in the blood, he was able to observe a vampire fighting; they weren't a hegemonic bloc or anything, but it gave him some things to watch out for.
And then, finally, there was an opening and Aurin vaulted directly behind the fell creature and he began to stab as fast as he could, one-two, one-two. They might merely slow it down, but if it needed blood for its thaumaturgy, then every big of magic it worked and every drop of blood he spilled was less power it would have to kill them—or kill him; he didn't know what happened to whatever Masagh was when driven to that point.
He vaulted back, sure its reflexes were quicker than his. When it turned, he flung his daggers for its eyes and whispered to Whomever might be listening for a little bit of luck to aid his skill.
