Renold let out a disheartened sigh accompanied by a gust of hot air when Jillian inquired as to the mechanics of possession. “Had it been anything but a demon lord – even half a demon lord – not only wouldn’t it have been able to enter us without an invitation, but we could probably also resist possession to some degree. Hazzergash, though... as a deity, he can possess and completely seize control of any of us with just a second’s warning. There’s no way to stop it... but as to seeing it coming...” He paused, thinking deeply, then held up his right front paw, “palm” up, and spread his talons wide. “He is incorporeal the way he is now, but is made up of a humongous amount of magical energy. Have you ever seen anyone producing a large amount of magical energy all at once?”
Abruptly something sprang into existence around the Green’s upheld paw, although it would perhaps be more appropriate to say that it turned visible, since it was technically something that had been there all along. Wrapping around his talons, harmlessly licking his scales on both sides of the appendage and extending in every direction in two-foot-long tongues of ephemeral yellow fire, a translucent aura manifested itself out of the sheer concentration of magical energy. It was a strange sight to behold, counter-intuitively casting no light and seemingly moving in lazy disregard of wind and gravity alike.
The dragon only maintained the aura for several seconds before drawing the energy back into himself, causing the ephemeral non-flame to quickly withdraw back into his paw. “The color will differ, but generally that is what it will look like. Hazzergash, when outside of a host, will look similarly, just... thicker.”
“So we will at least be able to tell who gets possessed if he tries something like that,” Gerald sighed, happy to have that detail confirmed for himself. “Luckily there’s an easy solution to how to deal with him potentially possessing us.”
Crone turned her head to shoot a curious look at the necromancer. “Would you care to elaborate?”
“It’s simple,” he shrugged. “We all just need to be inside the binding circle. That way whoever he decides to possess, there are still at least two others ready to activate the circle after he’s put himself in it. That way he’ll be vulnerable, and I will be free to siphon him back into the prison.”

The answers the Violet gave Ixion assurances that he can join and complete his contract with the Grand Master simultaneously. Certainly gave him more food for thought about the proposal, having a lean towards joining the organization. Sure, it’s another contract that I’ll sign my life away to, but doesn’t matter as I’ve already signed my damned soul away anyway, he thought. The requirement that someone needs official approval for a dismissal was also a nice clause to have. “Thank you for the answer, Violet. I think that concludes everything for the day. I now must retire for the night. I bid you the best in your hunt for Gaath.” With little word, he turned and walked towards where the rooms were. As it was paid for by I’on, the assassin might as well use it.

She was going to die. She could feel the white-skin's grip loosen slightly, but not enough to open up Angora's airway fully. She struggled to suck air into her lungs through her partially-blocked throat, her heartbeat was racing, she needed to think about what to do, she needed to survive. Having dropped her sword by now, Angora gripped the white-skin's arm around her throat as hard as she could, and then threw herself forward and pulled away as hard as she could, her nails still digging into the soft flesh underneath the white-skin's arm. It opened up a second or two of full breathing, which enabled Angora to look around briefly, only to see the warrior male from before in front of her, his sword over her and poised to strike. He had clearly shaken off the stunning effect by now, and she had a matter of seconds before he doubtless impaled her on his sword, which would be almost certain death. In another act of sheer desperation (and now increasingly panic), Angora lifted her right foot and kicked the male as hard as she could between the legs, aiming for his crotch area - Angora knew that was her only chance to stagger him - or at least reduce him as a threat to her for a while - whilst she tried to deal with the white-skin on her back. Angora's strength was yet to begin to wane from lack of oxygen, but it was still a precarious situation, one that was not helped by the approach of the painted woman and the green-skinned male...

Move, he had to move fast, act, stop the enemy, pacify her somehow... His highest priority right now had to be trying to ensure Thaler’s safety, and the way the situation had turned out – though their odds were probably a bit better than they had been before the daywalker’s interference – she was the one being targeted by this unknown assailant. Thanks to Mother Tigress apparently allowing him to move again, somehow, he was free to close the distance the struggling women had stumbled away, but... what then?
I can just slash at her with Roct, he thought, still staggering ahead to cover the scant few strides that separated him and his opponent. I... no. Usually I’d be confident that I could aim a blow that would kill her without injuring Thaler, but the way I feel right now? I can barely walk straight.
He decided on an attack that would deal more localized damage and would not penetrate through: a solid knock on the woman’s head with the pommel of his sword. Even if he was reduced to a clumsy stagger, delivering that kind of blunt force trauma to a human skull was probably going to kill her, or at the very least render her dazed for a while. He just had to let his forward momentum carry into the attack, keep moving until it hit, and –

His reflexes were not what they usually were, nor were his powers of perception, so not only would he not have been able to react in time, he did not even notice the woman aiming her kick at him. Propped against the ground as she was and with him moving toward her, there was plenty of force behind the kick, and it hit a bit too... well. Jaelnec did not even cry out in pain – did not think he could have, the way his throat contracted to the point where he could barely even breathe – but just let out a tense guttural sound through clenched teeth, the world swimming before his eyes as he breathlessly stumbled back, doubling over and quietly grunting as he endured this sinister malady.
What is this fight? he thought unhappily, blindly reaching out his left hand in hopes of finding a tree or something to support himself against. She... oh Spirits... argh... who does that?!

Morgan’s mind had been fully consumed by weariness. With all of these life altering events of the past few hours, his body experienced the full brunt of the day, both from battle and information. ’I just need to sleep.’ The vampire thought with a weary side long glance at Ixion. How the red hooded mercenary had managed to hold up this far, Morgan would not know. I’on had already disappeared, and as Ixion said his farewells to the sisters, the vampire would follow suite, turning on his heel, walking towards the door of the now destroyed inn. I’on may have already paid for rooms in the inn, but Morgan could never get used to the idea of sleeping indoors. ’Old habits die hard I suppose.’ the sniffer would mentally comment as he flinched at the streaming sunlight that greeted his cloaked body. Even thought it had been years since he had left the army, Morgan’s comfort was found in the outdoors. ’Besides, I doubt many would find comfort sleeping under the same roof as a vampire…’

With this thought, Morgan would find a darkened alley and a suitable elevated ledge not too far from the inn. There he would sleep until the time to travel came - no casual passerby would be able to see him, but without a doubt the trained eyes of Ixion and I’on would be able to spot him. A passing thought rose to Morgan’s consciousness as he resumed his nap, ’I’ll have to regain my strength after this.’ A faint gurgle of his stomach rippled through his abdomen, his mind’s eye drifting into blackness…

While her assailant clawwed and bit and struggled like a wild animal somewhere between a fish and a feral cat she held on. If she had the strength she'd simply break the woman's neck and hope to Rilon, Reina, whoever, the bitch would die from it. Though she knew her strength was not of the physical sort but the tenacious sort. She had been annoyed she'd let the woman loose enough to draw that ragged deep breath and so she locked in tighter around her even as the woman flopped and a hiss of air escaped someone nearby. Had she just?

Thaler had no way of knowing but she tightened her grip the way a snake tightens on it's prey, her legs wrapping back around the woman's torso -hard not to when she was under her in such a manner already- and then Thaler, with all her frustration and her own feral rage employed the creature's own tactics. She could feel the flesh beneath her, she knew where to aim and while her arm barred off the woman's throat she moved herself to bite down as hard as her teeth would allow her on the soft flesh of the woman's earlobe. She had no intention of stopping or restraining that bite either, intending to rip off a chunk of this stupid attackers ear if that is what it took. I know I have been fair from a good person but dealing with this much shtucka in one week is not a crucible it's just plain torment. Well this is what I think of your torment.

Still in a state of semi-daze from the word of power and frozen in a semi-adequate knifefighter's stance, his mind yet to catch up with the fact that there was nothing physical actually holding him place, Domhnall stared impotently as the newcomer and the younger black-eyes' swords clashed. There had been a stagger in his new acquaintance's step; it would appear that whatever invocation had stalled him and Iridiel had worked its magic on the squire, too ... but not the newcomer, who persisted her savage onslaught. With a flurry of white hair and oversized skirt, the white-eyes stormed past them, making a valiant effort of tearing the much larger frame of the newcomer back from her companion before latching herself onto her back and prompting the woman to drop her sword and throw herself backwards, onto the white-eyes, in what quite possibly was an actual attempt to crush the smaller person.
For a moment, his eyes flickered off the struggle and onto Iridiel.
"We should help?" he voiced, his intonation transforming the simple statement into a question. There was a measure of uncertainty in his tone, but nevertheless there was little doubt he considered it the right course of action. These people seemed like decent folks ... and truly, had it not been them wandering onto the scene not long ago, it could have quite easily been them fighting her alone.

"Should we help? You're the master of stupid questions, aren't you... that... thing was about to go after you were it not for that man in the scale armour! Come on, let's get a move on before we lose the advantage!" Iridiel crouched to pick up her crossbows and then willed herself as strong as she could to move - like the woman, Iridiel had not been as affected by the word of power of the white-skinned girl. She began to move towards the two struggling women, before she saw the man in the scale take a kick to... well... somewhere that a kick was not supposed to hit. She winced involuntarily.

Iridiel appeared to have recovered somewhat quicker than he had; quite evidently, they could still move, though he somehow had persisting difficulties actually believing it for himself. He had to consciously remind himself that there was nothing tangible that prevented him from proceeding onward. The bizarre disoriented sensation - which he could only compare to having downed slightly more than a reasonable amount of strong spirits - coupled with the similarly odd feeling of fear, or perhaps uncanniness, was not helping, either.
He had had the higher ground and unclouded mind when he had opted to go for the grey-skinned brute (the intelligence of the decision was still up to debate, though it had worked out well enough for them); now he had neither. And, for the matter, he had not really done much fighting against humanoids in the past (excluding a couple of brawls he had somewhat involuntarily been involved in). His targets - and occasional opponents - had been animals. The brute was just about bestial enough to be seen as one, but this "thing", as Iridiel had put it, albeit savage, still bore a semblance a bit too strong to his own kind.
And on top of everything else, with his proper weapons too far to fetch, he still only had a knife.
Nevertheless,as Iridiel moved, so did he; worst came to worst, now that he knew the newcomer was a humanoid being rather than a beast of foreign and mysterious nature, he could probably stab her and hope that the effect would be not dissimilar to stabbing any other human. Or maybe borrow a page from the white-eyes' book - throw himself at her and hope for the best. There was enough of them there for each of her limbs, and then some. Enough to overwhelm her by sheer numbers.
The younger black-eyes staggered back from a rather nasty kick indeed (Mind the boots. Got it.); he could only send the fellow a sympathetic look as he moved to circle around the struggling women, even though inwardly he wanted to cringe. Even Iridiel was wincing, and she did not have the anatomy to be able to properly relate...
Now what? He sent another questioning glance in Iridiel's direction; by now he had made his way to the opposite side of the white-eyes and newcomer (with Iridiel presumably on the other side), which left him quite open to try and disable her closest hand and arm or, if it came down to it, go for a stab from that side while the savage was otherwise occupied.

"Domhnall, stop faffing about, and back me up, damn you!"
Iridiel sprinted over towards the battling duo on the ground and aimed her crossbows at the bestial human woman, who was still struggling to throw off the white-skinned woman - Thaler, Iridiel remembered her name being - and somehow failing. Iridiel decided to inform the brute woman that this fight was well and truly 'over'.
Stepping back for a modicum of additional leverage, Iridiel kicked the black-haired woman hard in the side of the face with the heel of her boot, sending a spray of bright crimson blood exploding from the point of impact, as well as several nasty scrapes and cuts on the woman's cheek and a possible broken nose - at least from the blood streaming down her face. If that weren't enough, Iridiel took advantage of the woman's inability to defend herself by planting her foot directly on one of the woman's breasts and pushing with most of her weight, whilst pointing her left-hand crossbow at the woman's face.
"Your move, bitch."

In the background, the leader of the group and the beast from the faraway lands were making their way over.

Wham.

The painted woman had been able to close the distance between herself and Angora much quicker than Angora had counted upon, and she was defenceless against her attacks, what with the white-skin still trying to throttle Angora to death. She hadn't been able to kick out at the woman, largely because she hadn't noticed her approach thanks to the white-skin's efforts to cut off her limited air supply. Angora screamed in pain as the white-skin sank her teeth into her ear, but it was the kick that was the straw to break the camel's back. The kick impacted her on the side of the face, just above her mouth and at the side of her nose. Her world exploded into a mist of red and a fog of agonising pain. Angora felt a definite crack in the area impacted, as well as the base of her nose by the bridge - the bone splintered as though the painted woman had kicked open a door. Blood gushed from freshly-opened wounds on Angora's face and her broken nose, as well as a bloodied lip, but it was nothing compared to the pain. Angora had never felt anything like it - it was almost analogous to being stabbed; which she might as well have been, given the boots of the painted woman had some kind of metal studs in them to aid in grip. The force almost wrenched Angora's head from her spinal column - by some miracle she had escaped a fatal neck injury, but she was in no fit state to fight back anymore. Tears streamed from her reddened eyes and dripped into the open wounds on her face - the salt made the pain even worse (as if she thought such a thing was possible) and they mixed with the blood to fall upon the ground.

Before Angora could even so much as attempt to raise an arm in defence, there was another spike of pain from her chest. Evidently the painted woman was not finished, for now she was placing what must have been all of her weight onto Angora's right breast. It was bad enough that the woman had kicked her in the face, but now she was effectively stepping on her? And... Angora's face blanched with fear. She could dimly see the crossbow bolt aimed directly at her head. At this range, the painted woman wasn't going to miss. And Angora would be dead as soon as it hit her. Terrified now of her almost-certain fate, Angora's demeanour had changed completely - no longer was she the screaming embodiment of rage from before, incensed at these people crossing her path... but they were now her vanquishers. They might well be her killers. She didn't know their language, but she could barely speak herself. Somehow, she managed to stammer out "P-P-Please... n-no..." in her own tongue, in the vain hope that they would spare her life.

Inwardly, she braced for death.

In spite of the fact that the savage was an unquestionable adversary and had obviously aimed to attack and more than just probably kill them, a part of him nevertheless instinctively wanted to flinch when Iridiel proceeded to kick her in the face. It was brutal, and somehow more disturbing on a base level than a kick to the ribs or some other, less expressive part of one's form would have been. It was quite surprising the kick had not wholly snapped her neck and killed her nigh instantly; for the blink of an eye, Domhnall had figured his companion had done just that, but the woman, though no longer fighting back, persisted to feebly move - more so than the the reflexive twitching of muscles that were yet to realize they were no longer subjected to the control of a functioning mind - and tears started to well up and drop from the savage's eyes. Pain, the realization that she had lost, the forestfolk did not know...
The kick had served its purpose, though... The savage had been quite effectively placated, even before had a Iridiel planted a foot to her chest and pointed her crossbows at her face. She uttered something, though not in Rodorian (let alone in Éireann)... It was desperate, though who in the face of death would not have been? Criminals always pleaded innocence, did they not, and she had, without doubt, made a beeline for him and Iridiel with a clear intent to do harm... Strategic harm to top it off, seeing how Iridiel was the only one of them wielding obvious ranged weapons.
Letting her talk, though ... it seemed fair, if there were someone who could comprehend her... Right. And what were the bloody chances, had they not just figured out this group had a person amid their ranks who could speak every damn language there was, at once?
"Ye ... Thala?" he inquired, addressing the white-eyes. He did not have a good memory for names, let alone foreign ones, unfortunately... "I think she's not a threa' anymore. Can ye ge' out?" Carefully moving closer, he held out his free hand, ready to help the white-haired woman out and up if need be (if she had not moved, chances were she was now pinned under both the savage one and Iridiel's boot). Careful, though... Though pacified, the threat was still there; the woman's fingernails were literal talons, for Sulis' sake, and he did not need those things anywhere close to in his face...
"And ye..." He continued, louder, looking behind his back (still making sure she was out of arm-reach, still with a knife in the other hand; there was no obvious violent intent in him, yet he was ready to react in an instant, and that reaction was liable to involve a swift stab to whichever body part had reached out to grab him), seeking out the older black-eyes - what was his name now? - "Ye ... could ye understan' her?"

Oh... what is that? Olan thought as soon as he had gotten over the initial fright of the attacker’s battle-cry and had a chance to take a good look at her. Not only was that woman giving off some kind of aura that appeared to be capable of affecting people around her adversely, but she also looked weird... and not in the mundane kind of savage way, but in a not-entirely-mortal way. The experience was actually remarkable enough for the old explorer for it to revive some brief images of when he had looked at Annabelle, and later when he had looked at Black Thorn, only to at the same time witness their physical selves and their hidden true forms.
What he saw when he looked at the strange woman was not the fiery form of a hidden demon or a twisted, bloody abomination with no purpose but to inflict misery upon all beings of the planes, however... in fact he was fairly confident, even having lost his memories, that he had never seen anything quite like her before. There was something in her that was not in her, but was her, yet different from what she was. It was a puzzlingly paradoxical conclusion, but some part of him was sure that there was some truth to it. She was the mundane-looking sword-wielding woman, but she was also something else... something that was both a separate thing inside her and an integral part of her, as if forcibly fused with her. It was two beings made one: a woman and something shapeless and undefinable, something that coiled around her like wispy smoke while at the same time filling her inside, flitting about like a swarm of niin eager to touch and feel everything.
It is there, yet it is not there, he mused to himself as he stared at the woman in open-mouthed fascination. Something just behind the veil that peeked through, only to get stuck on this side. This... there might not be another being like this in all the planes, and there might never have been another before it.

“And ye... Ye... could ye understan’ her?”
Olan blinked, momentarily confused from being stirred from his amazement at this unique creature when he was addressed by Domhnall, making the old man look at the scene before him in surprise as though he had only now just realized that a fight had taken place and been finished while he had not been paying attention. It had been a brief but fierce struggle, to be sure, and both the attacker and Thaler appeared to have received significant injuries, and he had just been standing there dazedly watching it all happen without even lifting a finger to help.
Ashamed and nervous he hurried forward – having automatically undone Thaler’s true word without even realizing that he had done so – to offer his assistance now, at least.
“Oh yes, I can,” he eagerly assured the man, taking a second to recall what the woman had said before continuing. “She’s pleading for mercy, you know? It’s like Devil’s Tongue, her language, just a very crude version of it...”
He looked at the woman and, having identified her language, began to say, “Lahn-”
But he immediately stopped himself before he even got past the first syllable, eyes widening with the sheer stupidity of what he had just almost done. The true words did not allow him to reproduce dialects or accents, he knew, and only allowed him to speak the most basic version of every language... and he, in wanting to communicate with this woman, had just come dangerously close to start speaking in perfect Devil’s Tongue, which would have been a phenomenally bad idea. Who knew what kinds of devastation he could have wrought through accidentally invoked black magic? Besides, there was no guarantee that this woman would even understand “proper” Devil’s Tongue... he wondered how she had even learned that language in the first place, considering how great an effort most countries put into eradicating every record of the language they could get their hands on?
Instead of running the risk of killing them all with black magic, then, Olan opted a somewhat safer option that only posed an insignificant risk to his own health: actually speaking in true words, the language that could be understood by anyone and anything.
“We won’t kill you unless we have to,” he told her, deciding that he might as well speak on behalf of the group now rather than wait to hear what the others thought he should say. Besides, he was fairly sure that he was saying what they would have wanted him to say anyways. “Why did you attack us?” And what are you? he wanted to ask, but decided against it for more reasons than it just not being appropriate for the severity of the situation; with how entwined the woman-and-other-thing was, he figured there was probably a fair chance that they did not even realize that they were not originally one being and would be unable to answer.

While aware of the movement happening around her she had no idea what was truly happening, she felt the force of something that nearly wrenched the feral beast from her arms. Then the air blossomed with blood and she was both sickened and quietly satisfied that she could feel the warm, sticky feeling of blood. So someone had come to her aid after all, she had no idea who of course but she was quietly thankful, it removed the struggle from the creature, so Thaler concentrated on tightening her grip and listening out for that tell tale sign of death.

In fact, she was so distracted by focusing on the heartbeat of the beast that she didn't hear Domhnall at all, she was oblivious to the others moving in the background and even to Olan sidling up to the fight. When Olan spoke in the true words Thaler paid attention, the hair at the back of her neck stood on end and her ears buzzed as her mind tried to process at least three languages at once. Only then did the moments preceding that filter into her mind and catch up to her.

They were going to make friends with it? It had come out screaming with the intention to kill, it had gone straight for them on purpose and then went to attack Jaelnec, it had caused untold physical damage to her in its attempt to murder them all... so they were going to make friends with it? Just because it begged for its life? She shouldn't have been surprised, in fact, she wasn't really and so her attention went to the one she could feel pressing down on her and the beast.

She admired her friends stupidity, their desire to give everything -but Yth and gods apparently- a fair chance, even when they didn't deserve as much but she had no intention of taking chances. Wild beasts acted on instinct, this thing had hunted, it had consciously chosen to attack them, it had rounded on the people it thought it could take out, then attacked their defenders. Now it was begging for its life, any cornered beast no matter how strong would do the same, it didn't mean they ought to be spared. Or did that only count when it was driven by instinct and not desire?

She attempted to pull her mind together, she wanted to focus one word on the woman hovering above them both. Clearly she had some kind of weapon, so maybe if she got the woman to use it the trio -and she supposed these new two- could be on their way. However it was like catching smoke, her mind swam with pain and was fuzzy from the impact of the ground and the beasts skull on her own -but hey by all means see how the poor creature is- and finally she had to give it up. Thaler considered choking the woman out herself but since Olan was already busy trying to converse with it she decided they'd likely be annoyed at her if she did.

With a grand effort she managed to let go of the woman but not before 'accidentally' sending her elbow into the side of her head with all the force she could muster. Unaware of the offered hand she managed to pull herself free while the foreign woman continued to bare down on the bitch. Carefully she got to her feet, immediately regretting it but refusing to acknowledge it. Her new-borrowed clothes were ruined, the skirt was more or less fine, just dirty with a few tears but the shirt was torn to shreds. The daywalkers pale white skin was pink with her own blood and that of Angora's, her hair equally stained. With the wind on her her skin she could feel the lacerations up and down her arms, the deep bite marks, the cuts and scrapes. On her back and legs she could feel the bruising and grazes from the impact with the floor and more pertinently the ribs that had been deformed by the beasts weight. It hurt to breathe, it really hurt. The overwhelming urge reared in her to just stamp down on the beast's throat and have this whole stupid affair over with, however, much like Angora, Thaler realised the battle was over and her friends innate goodness and curiosity would over ride any desire to survive.

"So it's okay when someone chooses to try and kill us but scared animals we just murder." She uttered beneath her breath, having to turn her head to spit a mouthful of blood to the floor. "Good to know." Carefully she navigated the small crowd that had gathered around the poor old would be murderer and made her way back towards where she remembered the clearing to be. She was done, she was tired before this fight now she was exhausted and in a lot of pain. She should never have gone back to help them in that temple, at least she would have returned home with some money and a story to tell. Now all she had were scars she couldn't explain and a heart full of pain, no career, no money, no way to sustain herself and her father's sword was broken.

Zerul wasn't too far from here, she could likely hop a cart, though considering her wounds that might have been tricky. Whether she went on without them after she reached Zerul or stayed she wasn't sure herself yet. Either way things were going to drastically change, she should have stuck with her original plan, she should have never let them get close to her.

The pain was almost unbearable. The blood leaking from the gouges torn from her face and her ruined nose flowed freely, stifling any attempt Angora could make at responding to the curious old man, who was somehow able to... communicate with her. His words were all languages, and yet no language at the same time, but... but Angora could faintly understand him.

“We won’t kill you unless we have to. Why did you attack us?”

It was the first time since she had taken the Black Blade that it had been possible, and had she not been subjected to severe blunt force trauma, she might have been excited to finally encounter somebody who she could communicate with, perhaps explain herself, explain that she didn't know they were no threat to her, explain that she thought they were about to attack her and that she wanted to strike first so as to prevent that from happening. The opportunity was once in a lifetime, perhaps. However, as it stood, Angora wasn't in much state to respond to the old man, as much as she desperately wanted to explain herself. The pain from the painted woman's kick fogged her thoughts, as well as some strange feeling that she could not shake off, one of confusion and lethargy. Perhaps the painted woman also had an aura about her, one that clouded the thoughts of those around her, as Angora had? Not only that, but she could feel the white-skin underneath her slowly move away from her, finally releasing her iron grip on Angora's red-raw, and now blood-choked throat. Relieved at last to be able to breathe, Angora involuntarily began to cough violently, hacking up several globules of red-stained saliva and spitting them onto the ground, which was already beginning to resemble that of a slaughterhouse. However, Angora had no sooner been able to regain her ability to breathe, and she was even about to muster up a response to the old man, when the white-skin drove what felt like a spike through the side of Angora's head. The world around her swam before her eyes for a split second, Angora could hear the painted woman dimly roaring in what seemed like anger at the white-skin, before she lost all of her senses and collapsed limply back upon the ground, unconscious.

Angora came to in a fog of pain. Her eyes were unfocused, her muscles were twitchy, her breathing ragged. She tried to stand, but her muscles refused to obey her head's commands. She felt a wave of nausea overwhelm her senses, and she tried as hard as she could to fight the onrush of vomit from her distressed stomach, but it was no use: Angora coughed and retched, her pained throat protesting at the acidic liquid, but nothing was forthcoming save for a foul-tasting mouthful of bloodied vomit, which Angora spat upon the floor. Dragging herself to her knees, Angora blinked several times to try and clear her vision, and she focused on her breathing... in and out. In and out. Rinse and repeat, until you feel as if you're not going to suffocate. Angora tried to take stock of her surroundings as best she could; the painted woman from before seemed concerned at Angora's plight, whilst she could still see the old man from before. She tried to remember what he had asked her... something to do with why she attacked them?

"You... strangers... Angora... thought you... would... attack her..." was all she could manage before her muscles failed her once again, and she slumped back to the ground, unable to hold herself up. "Angora... her... my name..." She looked up at the old man, whilst... whilst the painted woman frowned and crouched beside her, murmuring something under her breath. Angora began to feel slightly better, her thoughts clearing. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you... you were friendly... Everyone before has attacked me... They wanted the sword. I was scared. I thought you would be the same."

That was it. He was permitted no rest. No respite for him. No break. He could not relent. Could not falter. Could not close his eyes and rest. Could not even collapse... No longer, not anymore, not... It would be far easier to simply give up. To not fight anymore. To let oneself to slump down and let the world end if it so desired. It seemed to be headed that way - either all world had gone to hell already, or all of Reniam had a personal vendetta against them. Heck, all Planes, if the appearance of the DevilGod and "the first of the nephilim" was any indicator.
But he could not let go. For everything that he had been taught and raised with. For everything that he believed in. For everything that he stood for. For his duty, his subordinates, his friends, the woman he loved... If he breaks, then how long it would be till the rest followed? It had been a close call for them, this morning. Too damn close... Thaler, Olan, even Jaelnec ... he could have lost them all. He had to go on, to continue onward. To carry on, here and now.
Koraakan knew how that was supposed to be possible. He was but a human man. He needed rest to maintain his basic functions, lest he succumb completely and be rendered dead altogether - or at least as dead he could feasibly go. And there was no one more useless than a dead man. And even tired men ... tired men made mistakes. Grievous ones.
Later. Now, he had to act.

From leaning on a shaking arm to half-kneeling, from half-kneeling to unsteady standing. The foreign warrior's pallid face was stern, his eyes hard. A mask hiding a mix of ire, annoyance, hopelessness, and determination. A grim, fatigued figure in a dark coat. His right hand moved to grip the handle of his sword as he moved onward - striding forward, not running -, though to what avail, he did not yet know. He would make a suboptimal combatant in his current state. His head was pounding. The air was too cold.
From that distance, he could do little to intervene what was ensuing; he could see Jaelnec block the ... woman's strike, her drop the blade, and Thaler rush forward to drag her off and latch onto her back, only to immediately be slammed to the ground under the assailant.
Thaler... He felt a stab in his chest. He had just wanted to reach Zerul City without another incident. Get one night's worth of uninterrupted sleep before being up against the whole damn word again. Provide that much, at least. Ensure this one little thing. But not even that had he been able to do... He could not fight it all... Not alone. No matter how much he wanted. He would grow weak, wear out, and then fall. Broken men cannot ... but that meant someone else took the blows. I'm sorry, Thaler.... I could not. I just ... could not. I did try... I did try, but my body and mind gave way. I could not...
The woman fought with savagery he had only seen once in the recent history - from the three-quarter-demon. Only, she had assaulted him firsthand. Torn Brian's face off for trying to aid him before his eyes. There was little doubt in the outlander's mind that if she would get the chance, this strange woman would not hesitate to tear Thaler's face off, too... As if she had not been through enough already today. For a moment, a bolt of white rage coursed through his mind - indeed, this time he would not have been certain he would not have succumbed to the urge to inflict a sudden and brutal death upon the woman, if she were within a hand's reach and he had the energy left for it -, but as it were, he managed to subdue the feeling by the time he had moved another dozen feet closer. Only the look in his eyes hardened for a moment, and a muscle by his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth. He could still taste blood.
The fight progressed fast - as most fights against a much more numerous adversary were wont to. He could see Jaelnec approach and stagger back, and Iridiel make the decisive move - break her neck or knock her senses out of it, either way she was no longer a threat. The Sekalyn's hand dropped from the grip of his sword, now hanging limply by his side. Considering that Iridiel went through the effort of standing on her and pointing her weapons in her face, probably not dead...
He could see the splotchy-skinned man crouch by the downed woman, saying something he could not quite make out, Olan moving up to her, and Thaler crawl out from under the woman (ignoring Domhnall's held-out hand), but not before elbowing her to the head one more time, briefly knocking her out.

Etakar had moved over, and was now looking down at the humanoids with a measure of rather pointed mild disapproval.

Aemoten came to a halt for a moment, hesitating, eyes moving from their new "detainee", to Jaelnec, to Thaler. In the end, he decided that Olan and their new acquaintances had the situation well in hand (Etakar's looming presence withstanding); Thaler was perhaps the most troubled for the time being. He sent a tired look in Jaelnec's direction, looked once more at Iridiel, wincing and motioning down with his hand, and then turned to meet Thaler on her way.
She was a mess; her clothes torn further, covered in scratches and bruises, a number of which no doubt covered up by what remained of her clothes. He could find another shirt, maybe ... with anything else they were out of luck for the time being. They'd all need to buy a few sets of clothes each once they finally make it to Zerul City...
"Thaler..." His voice was unusually rasped, though this time equal measures from his throat being raw and him being soundly asleep not two minutes ago, as well as weaker than usual. In truth, he also did not know what to say... Maybe start from the beginning. "When I was asleep ... what happened?"

Olan listened intently as the stranger – Angora, apparently – haltingly tried to explain herself, though her explanation left much to be desired in terms of clarification. She had attacked them because she simply assumed that they would attack her? Motivation like that was what drove psychotic murderers all over Reniam, and was generally one of the least excusable reasons for attacking others, especially if one had no justifiable reason to assume that they were really in danger. It was particularly dangerous just by the fact that there was no possible way to ensure that such a person bettered themselves and overcame their paranoia... aside from turning them into sniffers, that was. Usually though, people like that were either locked away for the rest of their lives as to not endanger others, or they were simply executed if they had managed to actually kill anyone in their delirium.
And that was really the worst part; had it just been her attacking them because of her mental state it might have been forgivable if they chose to forgive her, but the way she explained herself made it sound as though their group had not been the first... and all things considered, it was probably not too much of a stretch to presume that the others she had previously encountered were now dead, considering the intense murderous intent she had displayed when immediately coming at them with her sword drawn. And how well could they trust that these others had really “wanted the sword” and attacked her, rather than simply being random passerby groups like themselves?
The sword... Olan looked at the black weapon, the gaze of his uniform eyes untraceable to the observer, and frowned. He had been so fascinated with Angora herself that he had barely paid attention to her weapon, and even now he personally found the sword not to be anywhere near as intriguing as the woman herself. Judging by the color of the metal and the craftsmanship in general, he figured there was a fair chance that it was obsidite... and it had glowing runes engraved into the blade. It certainly looked powerful and valuable, possibly even enough so that nefarious elements might be inclined to try to steal it, but that was really all he could tell just by looking at it. It was not like Angora herself, had no “second nature” for him to see... that is, it was not alive.

“Why did you have to make a promise like that?” Jaelnec asked bitterly, his voice a noticeably higher pitch than normal, as he gingerly stumbled over to where everyone were gathering. He still had his sword in hand, ready to resume fighting if it became necessary, but at least he did not seem to intend to attack Angora, even if he was visibly (and understandably) angry. “I really want to kill her...”
Olan pondered briefly whether to address the others in true words as well, just so that Angora would know what she told them, but ultimately decided against it in an effort to try to preserve his energy in case he needed it. “She says her name is Angora,” he told them in Rodorian, “and that she thought we would attack her, you know... because others have? She says that they wanted her sword.”
He frowned again, turning back to Angora and switching to speaking in true words again. “Can you do something about... that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the churning, coiling ethereal her-not-her that only he could see. “Your aura-thing? I think everyone would be in a better mood if you could tone that down a little.”

“Can you do something about... that? Your aura-thing? I think everyone would be in a better mood if you could tone that down a little.”

Angora shook her head sadly. "I... I can't control it much... it varies on my.. my e... emotion?" Angora looked at the ground as the painted woman seemingly tended to her wounds, and the green-skinned man crouched by her - probably to keep her from doing any sudden moves judging by his grip on his knife. Angora, despite her fear of these people, tried to communicate as best she could. Perhaps if she co-operated with them, they would be less likely to kill her? And besides, the old man seemed genuine enough, perhaps she could use him as a way of keeping the others from harming her... Her voice rang hollow in her throat, it having gone unused for seemingly forever. And yet, the words came - from where, she did not know, but that did not matter for now. "I-I'm sorry... It... The attack was... it wasn't necessary. Other people... like you... they make me scared... they make me fearful that they will kill me and take the sword... S-So I kill them first... It... It feels like the... the natural thing to do?" Angora looked down at the ground, now overcome with the shame of her actions. Maybe the other people weren't hostile? Maybe they didn't want the sword, maybe... maybe she'd killed them without reason? Maybe she'd killed them in cold blood? There was a word for that. A word that even Angora knew.

Murderer.

The very thought of the word was crippling. As Angora looked down at the ground, unable to face her captors from the shame of her actions against them, her face burned. Her wounds dripped fresh blood that had rushed to the surface of her skin, seemingly to the painted woman's annoyance. And the old man's voice... she heard dim voices in her head... voices she thought she recognised, speaking the same language that the old man had been speaking to his companions. She heard a man's voice and chuckle, and footsteps, but then a shout, and a scuffle... And the unmistakable sound of a knife plunging through flesh and blood. Angora's eyes opened wide as she heard the next voice. It was her own. Speaking the same tongue as the old man. Seemingly triumphant. And then, the voices faded away.

"Old man... Your language... it brings back... m-memories... dim ones... I don't know what they mean... like I remember them, but I don't..." Angora looked into his eyes. "Could you help me understand?"

Thaler ignored the shouting of the foreign woman, she honestly had given up caring and that was a dangerous enough state. She almost longed to be back in that dream where she'd had a nice friendly -sort of- chat with Rilon. Sure it had been cold and hard and terrifying on a deep emotional level but it had been calm and polite. The blood god had been courteous not murderous and for the first time in that entire week she had felt relatively safe and managed a whole few hours without being attacked by someone or something. Compared to her waking hours it had been...blissful.

She chided herself for such thoughts though, Rilon was 'evil' it was said and she was done arguing with people on that. Perhaps the simplicity of a nice conversation was what she had enjoyed most about that. No torture, no violence, no wild and pointless aggression. Just a chat. It was strange to think there were people out there that started a meeting with 'just a chat' these days.

She had continued to make her way to the clearing, mind fighting to stay centred enough to keep her balance, her limbs aching, the wounds throbbing and her ribs hurting with every breath. She was listing all the things she wanted at Zerul and the few people she knew there who might help. Her mother's old comrades of course, her fathers iron and steel supplier and the baker, if they were still there and if she could find her way to them.

It was Aemoten's voice that halted her steps, Why are you awake? She thought to herself, the man needed rest, the man needed not to fix everything, his soul was going to fall apart and... calming herself she turned slightly, taking a few steps backwards to stay out of his reach. He'd try and fix her, he'd kill himself trying to fix her. She heard what Jaelnec said and Thaler really wanted to urge him on, instead she called out. "You're better than her, don't lower yourself to a murderer's standards." She fought the wince, she fought the urge to cough, then she turned to Aemoten, "That creature jumped out of the bush, went to attack the strangers, Jaelnec distracted it, it then rounded on him and tried to kill him..." She felt a little ashamed but not enough to hide the truth, "So I lost my temper, I used my gift, it didn't work on her so...I jumped on it. I'm fine."

She really wasn't but she had to say it, anyone with eyes could see the wounds, the way she barely put weight on one leg to relieve pressure on one side of her body and how her smile was forced into place. "I am in no fit state to continue dealing with..." She gestured to the trio of strangers and their gathered group, "...this and you are in no condition to do anything about mine. So by all means go make friends with it, I'll go get things ready for when you arrive at Zerul, okay?" She said rather finally on the matter. Offering him another faint smile before saying quieter, "Don't make me put you back to sleep." She really didn't want too, didn't know if she could actually but if he made a move at her she would. He -needed- to rest, willingly or otherwise and she needed to go, before whatever was left of her humanity slipped away in the wake of common sense.

With that she turned and continued the way she had been intending to go, the treeline wasn't far, she could feel the roots, so her unoccupied hand became her guide to feel her way through the mess. Zerul, bath, opiates, clothes. Her list and her mantra. Quick detour, she had known better, she had said it would not be quick, she had warned them it wouldn't end well. She wondered if any of them regretted not listening to her. Zerul, bath, opiates, clothes. Bandages, needle, thread, the list is growing. I wonder if anyone owes my family that much.

It is as I feared, then, Olan thought sadly as he continued listening to their defeated assailant. Not even Angora herself seems convinced that the people she killed previously were actually after her or her sword. It was all based on the basic assumption that they might attack her. Luckily it seems that she is starting to question that way of doing things herself, but that doesn’t bring back the people she has killed...
He sighed to himself, closing his eyes as he tried to think, somewhat distraught that none of the others saw fit to help him with this exchange, leaving everything in his hands. Oddly though, it felt as if the responsibility was not new to him... as though being decisive had once been a core part of who he was, but had been left behind at some point, long before he had lost his memory. There was still flashes of this old him – how many “old him”s were there, he wondered? – such as when he had attacked Rilon or earlier, when he had thrown himself bodily at Usha to save his friends... And then there was the reaching to his hip reflexively, as though to draw a weapon that was not there. It was something deeply ingrained in his body and soul, just like the ability to use the true words and seeing the “second nature” of things. Second nature... what, he wondered, would he see if he had been able to look at himself? If he glanced at a mirror, would he see something else besides his own face looking back? Behind the veil...
He shuddered at the thought; for some reason, those words seemed to resonate with him very strongly.

“She admits that she attacked the other people first,” he translated Angora’s words for the others, opening his eyes and maintaining an uncharacteristically serious mien. “And says that she felt like ‘the natural thing to do’ was to kill them before they could kill her.”
He looked around at the others nervously, but also with an alien hardness in his gaze that seemed like it belonged to someone completely different than the usually lighthearted Olan; it was a contrast that seemed to cut even sharper due to the omittance of his habitual “you know”. “It’s not her fault that she is like this, I think... She can’t control the aura that is affecting everyone, either, but it seems to come from something... else.” He sighed and shook his head. “This is my own observation, but there is something in her that isn’t mortal that’s affecting her... and it’s fused with her. We can’t leave her, or she will keep killing people.”
He fell silent when Angora spoke again, listening intently. He switched to true words once more: “I can translate anything,” he told her confidently, “if you can remember the words, I can tell you their meaning.”

He vaguely followed what was going on in the background, Olan speaking in ... some language that was all and none. He had heard it a few times before, in his time within the group, he thought, in addition to Thaler's own strange ability, the nature of which he did not quite fathom yet, either. He guessed he had pinpointed the source now, at least... Another mystery to add to the long row of those surrounding Olan. Perhaps he would bring it up sometime later, but for now, the confidence that the older nightwalker was firmly on their side (and had more goodness in his heart than was strictly taken healthy to him) was more than sufficient. He had neither the patience nor energy to deal with anything that was not the most crucial, the most immediately relevant, or the closest to his heart.
And so, though he registered what Olan said, though he could hear their "detainee" speak in some language that seemed both oddly familiar, yet wholly unrecognizable at once, though he could hear Olan giving a brief overview of her words (which, frankly, made little sense for a rational mind - she had attacked a group unaware of her presence just because she "thought" they were going to attack her, let alone a group much more powerful and numerous than her? whatever were they going to do with her...), he seemed to pay little mind to it for the time being, and focused entirely on Thaler.

She had halted upon his words, but also backed down, out of his reach - making the foreign warrior, who was yet also simply a human man, involuntarily flinch, as if she had physically hit him again. He did not not move after her ... did not want to seem more invasive or overbearing than necessary. He did not know whether anything would ever be the same it had been before this morning between them, before the devilgod decided to drop in and deal a devastating blow to them all, but if things were to ever return to any semblance of normal - that would take time. He would not be able to rush it, no matter how much he wished that... Just being able to offer one another comfort and reassurance again would be enough. Not ... this. Whatever "this" was. Fear? Revulsion? Bitterness? Yet it had been relayed and implied that she was also worried for him... It did not make sense. Perhaps they were both messed up enough for nothing to make bloody sense anymore. The outlander's expression had turned to a stern mask once again, though now there were faint hints of mournful weariness present, rather than anger.
The daywalker answered, though, echoing what Olan had implied. Without any provocation, the woman had ambushed them.
"Just ... like that?" he echoed faintly, an expression of disbelief rather than a true question.
So that was why it felt like someone had hit me over the head with a sledgehammer... a part of him absently noted when the daywalker admitted the use of her power. Did not matter, though. She did not know, and he was not about to make her feel quilt over something she had inflicted from lack of information. And strictly spoken, he would have had to be woken up soner rather than later, anyway. There was something else, though ... the pain in his head persisted, and he knew this kind. What the exact effect was, he could not tell, but there was still some aura, some lingering spell present that affected the mind. The woman, most likely...
No, you're not fine, a part of him immediately also wanted to protest when she stated otherwise, but yet he did not feel like arguing. So he just slowly, automatically shook his head.
"Jumping on it did work," he remarked instead. Fact.
Thaler did not keep up any pretenses about their respective conditions. There was no point, anyway... He could see her. She could hear his voice, had felt the tremors and lack of stability in his body. He still wanted to protest ... explain her that what ailed him and what he would be giving to heal her were fully different things, that it would not make him immediately worse for wear, that he would manage, that... He did not want to argue. And besides, in this instance there was a better option than spending his resources to heal Thaler, anyway. So he relented.
'Go make friends with it' ... for the briefest of moments, something akin to a wry smile touched the warrior's lips, only to be gone a moment later.
"Neither of us is fine," he admitted, echoing her latter sentiments. We both know that. "Rest ... yes. Trust me, just someplace where we'd be left alone till morning... Would be nice." Maybe the world would be more willing to grant them what they desired if they did not ask much from it in the first place. "I can make it to Zerul City, now, though. We'll move as soon as I ... well, have figured out what do with her." He sighed, then swallowed before continuing. "That woman, the one who helped, she's favored. Healer. I'll ask her to fix what she can, okay? No reason to travel like that. I should still have a spare shirt or two ... water, too." He obviously did not care if she went through his things, and now he was openly giving her implicit permission to do so. Nothing to hide from her. He had to wince when she mentioned putting him to sleep. "Please, don't. I don't think I'd wake a before the month after the next if you did..." It was said almost as a joke, but there was also a sinister truth to the statement.
He hesitated for a moment.
"Take care," was what he finally settled with. It was oddly detached, as had been most of the little exchange, emotions filtered out for the sake of brevity and simplicity. It did not mean that the feelings were not present ... it was simply not the time and place for that now. Maybe he would have taken her hand, held it for a moment ... he did not dare try.
Instead he simply sent her with his eyes for a brief while, then turned to meticulously cover the rest of the short way to the little gathering around the strange woman. The most he could do for her for the time being would be to arrange everyone a mount and tell off anyone who would stand between and whatever inn William had arranged them.

“She admits that she attacked the other people first,” Olan was relaying as he approached and took a standing position between him and Jaelnec. “And says that she felt like ‘the natural thing to do’ was to kill them before they could kill her.”
What was this? Insanity? Mind-control? One thing he probably needed more insight to right away...
He leaned closer to Jaelnec and, lowering his voice, asked, "The aura he's referring to ... what is it like? I can tell there is something that affects the mind ... not what it is. Mostly just pain of a very particular kind ... can explain later."
'Something that is not mortal' ... like we have had any shortage of those recently. And thus far, this one did not seem to break the pattern of hostility. There was no way this woman was going to convince him this was an accident. Could just not let her go, because she was too damn dangerous. Obviously. But was she a victim or a perpetrator?
He remembered all too well the day the three-quarter-demon's failing disguise finally broke apart fully. The savagery with which she had assaulted them. But he also remembered Louis, how he had gone from aiding him to having being imprinted with fury towards them, a fierce loyalty towards the near-devil, the effects lasting for hours. The Illusionist, and how they toyed with people. How Jaelnec had been commandeered by an entity they still knew very little of ... Thaler had trusted her to be good-natured, yet he figured that at the very least, she had a rather poor understanding of humanoids.
"Possession?" he inquired from Olan.
Short of deciding that she was a lost cause and executing her on the spot ('unless we have to'), this one would probably need to come with them for the time being... The next reasonable thing to do would probably be to hand her over to whichever authority in Zerul City was most appropriate ... another thing between them and a perfectly adequate set of beds.

The white-eyes paid no heed to his words or held-out hand, opting to crawl out from underneath her on her own reserves, though not before slamming an elbow to her head and inciting a surprised exclamation from Iridiel. She had reverted back to Éireann, but the gist of her message of, "Damn it, she was about to say something! The hell did you have to go and do that to her for?! Don't you want to hear what she has to say?!" was probably evident enough even without the words themselves being understood.
The white-eyes herself was in no better shape, though, clothes torn and arms bleeding from bites and scratches, chest no doubt hurting from the savage throwing herself back at her. The forestfolk stared after her, half-dumbfounded, even when the woman muttered something about it being okay for someone to try killing them, but scared animals being murdered.

He did not know who or what (other than Angora being spared) the statement was aimed at. He himself was a hunter, but he had never killed without a reason (and no proper humanoids, to date). He killed for the same reason a wolf, fox, bear or a tiger would - to eat. Or, in rare instances, to save himself or others... What he did not eat of those he voluntarily killed, there were other uses for - pelt for fur clothes or leather, bones for tools, fat for ointments or soap, sinew for string ... and what happened to be left over still, Iridiel's wolf usually just gobbled down. Hunters and prey were natural course of life; even herbivores like deer would not hesitate to become opportunistic scavengers or consume the contents of a bird's nest given the chance (especially in the spring, when their antlers were growing in).
Nature was brutal. If it was not predator, it was disease ... and every now and then, even if you were regarded as a peaceful herbivore, it was your own kind. If it was not real threat, it was perceived threat ... competition for resources, mates... It was rare if a game beast lived to old age, but if they did, they often lived the last stretch of their life in solitude, plagued by ailing joints and waning strength. One thing they had in abundance, though, was experience. They knew when and where to find food and water, where predators hid and which bird calls meant trouble, they knew how to fight...
Every now and then, a stag lived about double his prime; if a seven-year-old stag had a magnificent rack of many-pronged antlers, then an old thin gray beast like this usually only barely more than two prongs on their horns, leaving mostly smooth long spikes reaching back and forwards. And they knew well how to use them... Hunters called them "lancers". Experienced deer feared them, and fled at the sight of them. Young, foolish ones with blood rising to their heads occasionally answered their challenges during the mating season - and were subsequently gutted. A single "lancer" could have a devastating effect on the local deer population, and subsequently had to be hunted down, lest it endangered the very future of the next generation of its kin...

Strange woman... Even stranger happenings... The leader of the small group was once more up and about, it seemed. To be fair, one would probably have to have been dead to not have been roused by the commotion. He saw the warrior approach the white-eyes; they appeared to be talking, as it were... At the same time, there was motion from his other side, and the forestfolk's attention was diverted. Hopefully those two over yonder were fine by themselves...
The savage was trying to stand, but got no farther than to her knees; Iridiel had foregone her offensive demeanor, and was now seemingly concerned for the well-being of the individual she had not long ago incapacitated. She spoke, though, the savage, and much like before, he could not understand a word. Her voice made the hairs on his neck stand on end - it was hollow, somehow, with a strange echo to it. Like the unearthly scream she had let loose as she charged... And on the next moment, she dropped to ground again.
Indeed. Not a threat anymore. His eyes moved to his knife, still brandished and held in a firm grip as it was, and with a measure of awkwardness, sheathed it once more. Iridiel was frowning now, crouching by the savage and muttering something under her breath, with the familiar soft cyan-blue glow emitting from her hands. She was actually healing the savage? Admittedly, it would be mighty difficult to question a comatose person... The younger black-eyes stepped forth, still bitter at the savage for her having kicked in the crotch. The older one appeared thoughtful.
"You were going to kill her," Domhnall idly observed. "Doesn' explain wha's her issue with us, 'ough."
What followed was a weiar interrogation, where parts were in Rodorian, parts in all the languages, and parts in ... whatever that was. Domhnall was fairly confident Iridiel could understand what was said in all the languages the same he did, the Rodorian bits ... not so much. In the end, he leaned closer, and quietly translated.
"The savage's name is Angora. She attacked because she thought we will ... because we want her sword or something. She has attacked people before, because it "felt natural" to kill them, well, before they killed her. There is something not mortal in her, the black-eyes thinks, that is making her so..."
Meanwhile, the warrior had moved up to their little conglomeration, looking down on the savage, his face equal measures hard and weary, "Possession?"
He really did not seem to dally around before getting to the point, it looked like.

Iridiel leaned back away from Angora and sighed, nodding her head in understanding.
"Possession by some foreign spirit. It makes sense - you heard the scream, Domhnall. It sent a chill down everyone's spine, it was certainly not human, and her voice sounds as though it is some demon from the Hells trying to communicate to us. What makes me wonder now is... how is she able to control herself? Have we weakened the possessor's hold over her? Maybe... enough to help her?"
She looked inquisitively at the old man, and then at the woman in front of her. She had not enjoyed rendering this woman nearly unconscious with her blow to the head, but it had been the easiest and simplest way of sorting the situation. And her anger with the white lady? Out of irritation that she was trying to help the woman-now-patient of hers - try walking up to a doctor and stabbing their patient with a knife, and see what reaction you'd get. It wouldn't be much different.
Iridiel heard a whisper in the back of her mind. "Help her. She is important to the journey. I will guide you." Frowning, Iridiel nodded and motioned to Domhnall and Olan to listen to her.
"Look, I need you two to hold her down in case things go nasty. I'm going to try and see what I can do about this possession - to do that I need to go into her mind and... well, figure out the pieces of the puzzle. I can't guarantee her it won't be difficult or painless, but I will try and be as quick and gentle as I can." She looked at the old man. "Olan, I need you to tell her to try and remain as calm as possible - not easy, I know, what with now two entities rummaging around in her head, but she can't throw me off, otherwise Sulis knows what will happen to her mind... and possibly even her soul. It's... it's the only way I know to treat this. It's dangerous. But if it works, we'll see the results."

Thaler was rather startled by Aemoten's joke, was there truth in that? She wasn't sure, he sounded somewhat sincere with his words, despite the joke, it was almost...ironic? She wasn't sure, it was hard to tell but it changed nothing. She wasn't going to do anything to Aemoten, she couldn't risk it. While putting him 'down' for a few months would be ample rest it was likely to hurt, a lot, she didn't want that for him. Not really. She just wanted him to sleep, she just wanted him to get better and stop trying to fix everyone, to take a moment for himself rather than worry over strangers and maniacs and gods and lunatics. She just...wanted them to be able to laugh and smile and joke like they had the night before, to just be people and not warriors and crusaders and victims. She didn't want to be a victim, she didn't want them to be victims, You better stick to your word, she thought to the god who'd promised her the protection of her friends.

When he offered the outlander to her as a source of healing she lightly shook her head, “The woman is angry with me, I learned a long time ago not to trust people angry with me. Especially with my health.” She said quietly, there was no explanation, it wasn't needed she didn't think. She wanted to tell him more, tell him to come with her, tell him to...it didn't matter though, he was the leader through and through. He was always going to be it too, the good of the group and all that. She admired him for it as much as it infuriated her, so she saved her breath and shifted her weight to better support her wounds.

Then he wished her well, she hadn't expected that reply, it stunned her a moment. She was grateful though, so grateful, a relaxation seeped into her tense muscles and she sighed gently. “You too, I mean it.” She uttered lightly, “And be careful.” She added.

With that she turned and went on her way, she had a road to find and travel to Zerul to arrange. There was an irritated squawk behind her and she stopped again. The dishevelled bird, flapped and fell like a rock off the back of the donkey, it tried again to take to the air and failed, flapping, falling, half tumbling and hopping across the ground towards the Daywalker. It grabbed the hem of the skirt and through stubborn indignation pulled itself up. Thaler bent to guide it up, getting pecked for the effort, until the Crow was arranging itself on her shoulder. Another squawk, directly in her ear and the Daywalker continued on her way.

At least she had a companion, she allowed her fingers to caress the birds chest...and got pecked again, a grumpy companion.