[center][b][i]Here Cometh the Wolves[/i][/b][/center] --- James, in his investigations upon the corpse notices nothing at all out of the ordinary. As far as he could tell, the doctor's analysis was indeed correct that it was some sort of beast that had attacked. Meanwhile, the captain begins to answer Esyllt despite Saul's comments. “Truthfully, the lizardfolk are barbaric compared to others of the kingdom. Many hold to their primitive heritage even to this day, and it brings conflict. I have no doubt in my mind that they are capable of such savagery,” he grunts. As he speaks, his two deputies tense and hiss out venomously, glaring at Saul and Esyllt. The first of the half-breeds speak up, “The lizard tribesss are proud folk and conduct themselvesss with honor! We have had thissss conversssation before. Do not inssssult our kind.” The captain casts back an irritated glare at the duo, “Which is why they look upon you as illegitimate, unworthy and impure, simply because you are not completely of their kind.” The two clam up quietly and cast wary glares at each other, the second shaking their head when the other seemed tense enough to spring into action. Jellial, in his transformation, would be regarded by the half-breed guards with awe. The one who initially claimed insult, lets out a soft cooing noise in their impressed feeling, “A magnificent warrior if I ever ssssaw one, in your beastly form, right Shria sisssster?” The one known as Shria nods affirmative, “Yesss Bassstian. Very...” The captain simply regards the action with morbid interest before shrugging, moving on to the next question. “As far as I know, all victims have been human or at least close enough to it. Some half-breeds, there was even a known or two with chunks bit out of it...” He shakes his head, “The one thing I find awful suspect is that none of the victims have had any ties to the lycans or the lizard tribes. Not a single one had such blood in them. You would think, with some of Varro's people being targeted, if it was a political action, that there would be some of his closest men, particularly, mostly lizard-kind, in the numbers.” He leans back against the table, “There's been racial tension brewing here. Two main instigators. You have the scaley tribes then this idiots that parade around calling themselves 'the Dragoon Knights.' They like to fancy themselves as saving the world from the lizardy-menace or some such.” He waves his hand, “Either way, if its not the lizards or moon beasts themselves holding some sort of vendetta against two of the triad, then my coin would be on them.” Saul, while the captain is speaking, feels as if something were not right in what was being said, as if there was something vital omitted. As Jellial carefully carves with his claws, despite the awkward appearance to the fresh cuts in dead flesh not matching precisely with those on a living victim, he will begin to notice a pattern. The lines were all too even and the spacing too different from how a lycan would be leaving marks. At least, a lycan not of his size. It would seem whatever left the marks was precise and smaller in comparison. The smells, though, that Esyllt mentions... As he breathes in deeply, he would slowly begin to notice a lack of... any real identifying smell. It was as if the man had been washed clean of any smell that could make it clear who did it... Or at least, he was smothered with so many different ones that it would be impossible to tell the difference. One scent lingered stronger than the rest, though Jellial could not possibly begin to place it. That all established, the Captain sighs and rubs his eyes, "Regardless, if you want a word with the good doctor, Shria here can escort you. Bastian can guide you to the lycan den, since it moves about. I can get you to Varro, if you need the guide, Saul." Tipping back his helmet and mussing up his sweat-soaked hair he grunts, "Name's Rexel, by the way." --- [center][b][i]Cease Fire[/i][/b][/center] --- As the temple goes up into a vast panic, men and women alike bolting to their feet and readying their weaponry, a fierce cry echoes out through the chapel as doors smash open. A bugle goes off outside and a small chorus of alarmed screams rise to meet it. Outside on the archer's nest, blood would flow like rain as a slaughter begins. Alida looks around, eyes hardened and waiting for the next attacker as Taigyn swings a warhammer into one hand, tired gaze sharp and looking for trouble. Sisera lets out a soft curse and moves out of the direct line of fire, his magic would be useless with so many Templar in the room. Meanwhile, feet drum upstairs as four bowmen appear, one of which must have made his way from the archer's nest. The men draw and begin to aim down upon their enemy.... The peace meeting below. Taigyn steps forward, pointing with his hammer and shouting out a word of power, light erupting in a burst before the eyes of two of the archers, “Shields up!” he commands. The arrows that are released by the panicked archers fly wide, though Draza would notice one whiz past, obviously intended for her petite form. Alida lets out a cry and begins to direct an assault on the attackers upstairs... Before two of her own turn about, blocking off one of the staircase side-by-side, weapons raised against their allies. Her eyes widen in realization that Davian had been right about traitors in their midsts. At the front entrance, two loud thuds ring out as the guards fall flat to their death and a squad of five, their leader at the forefront steps over the dead, letting out a bellow of challenge. It would seem the Papacy had truly arrived to crash the party now. Attention drawn to the entrance, Renaldo would not even react as two arrows fly loose, striking him in the back. He begins to raise his arms to cast a spell, lips curled up and crying out, “This is for Renegade...” before he looks down at the sensation of warm wetness spreading over his chest... and both arrows protruding through him. His legs collapse out from beneath him, and as his face hits the floor, he lets out a very delayed, “Ow...” Upstairs, the two mercenaries of the Papacy seem to snap out of it at Lothar's command, faces twisted in fury. “No pay in surrender, bastard,” one informs the Wolff heir simply, loosing an arrow at him. While Lothar fails to dodge, his armor stops the arrow from even reaching his skin. The other mercenary draws out his dagger and lunges at Alhvaharyis, eyes wide with terror and a damp spot obvious upon his leggings.... And the weapon bites into the mage's flesh, drawing a long, shallow cut across his face, sending blood obscuring his vision.