If Laisander was hoping to get anything out of the priest, then he would be sorely disappointed with the staunch silence that hung between them. As aware as he was of the angel's presence, he kept himself completely focused on the playing children in front of him. Making sure that none of them got hurt during all their roughhousing. Their loud war cries and faux commander voices seem a little too loud for his ears today and after a while, they don't sound like the voices of young children playing pretend anymore. And maybe it's the angelic presence next to him, but his eyes follow Javier closely as he takes on the roll of the brave 'human' who saves the poor captured group of children. Part of him wants to egg him on, because it's the right thing to do and considering it's only play, he knows everyone else expects the 'hero' to be the victor, even those playing the part of the demons are all too ready to be defeated and let the glory fall to him. A different part thinks almost reflexively, draws out the arrows and maneuvers, points out what's wrong with their strategy; sees the battle field and all it's trials and tribulations...the sparks of warriors and the foolhardiness of soldiers.. not little children.

 The air feels cool when he finally blinks and inhales, taking a good deep breath as an attempt to clear his head. The red mist of battle is replaced by the laughter of children and the bright glare of the sun, more warm than burning. He forces his muscles to relax, concentrating on his toes up to his shoulders, flexing and stretching until the muscle naturally relaxes and he can feel himself start to calm down a little. What time is it? How long had he spent getting lost in memories of the past? It wouldn't be the first time, but certainly it wasn't something that had occurred for a good while in any recent memory. As always, he pushes it out of mind, relates it to...sentimental connections, if one could feel sentimental about the battlefield. 

 Standing up, he calls out for the children to come in for the evening classes. He can hear their teacher, Mr Abadawn, pockets cracking with chalk and silver chains jingling, making his way to the front entrance of the church. Nails running down the blackboard under his arm in his nervous habit. The children try to protest, begging to finish up the story, but Xephos can hear the screeching getting closer and he knows the sweet time they'll take just walking to their classroom so firmly, he calls them in. Many of them try to shoot a pleading gaze to Lai on the way in, but Javier doesn't bother knowing how adamant Father Xephos is on their education.