---

Gate in sight, Lhirin had a direct view as someone rushed up--appearing frantic and altogether rushed--and activated something that promptly caused a blaring noise to ring out. A fraction of a second passed, Lhirin's eyes narrowed then he smiled. Pace picking up, the deigan mage broke into a jog and easily drew his Runeblade. It seemed that his deduction had led him not just to the best source for further information, but also to the site of what was likely to be an evolving problem.

Lhirin was wonderful at solving problems. However, before he could reach much of anywhere, the sound of hoofbeats pounded into his ears. He glanced back, noticing several figures who had gotten the message to go to the manor after him now rushing to catch up. His eyes too wide, Lhirin took in the knight-boy who had been at the door and his likely superior who had been inside. He noted his companion, Irah, resplendent as a halo of water came to hover near her, and even the surgeon. The newcomers, bowling past everyone through the power of their horses, he did not recognize--naturally. However, unlike others who might assume that they were the reason the alarm had sounded, Lhirin had other ideas.

The horses had only accelerated to the point of being audible after the alarm had gone off. He would have noticed them otherwise. They were not the threat. Further, the figure who had sounded the alarm had not been looking in the direction that the newcomers were arriving from. No, they'd been fleeing as if from within the mansion itself. The threat came from elsewhere.

All this in the space of perhaps two seconds rushed through his mind, then--realizing others would likely not assume the same--Lhirin raised his free hand and signaled to Irah. At the same time, he took a breath and called out, his voice loud and clear even as it cut through the sound of the alarm.

“The riders are allies,” he shouted, before turning, dodging from their path by dodging through the open gate where his free hand grabbed the shoulder of the alarm-ringer.

“Where is the threat,” he queried, his voice loud enough to be heard over the alarm, and intense. His silver-eyed gaze cut through the stranger, his eyes wide--though his smile had fallen away--making him appear almost manic. “Here to help.” He clarified with the same unerring intensity.

Amidst the thrall of that focus--and having turned his back to where Nabisisstra had emerged--Lhirin utterly missed the coal-skinned enigma as she stepped into everyone else's view.

Down the road about 150 meters to the southwest of the Fadewatcher station, almost immediately across the street from the Borstown winery, stood the manor house of the barony, the home of Baroness Vela Bor and, according to some stories, the very place where the Nemhimian Prooga had been felled 89 years ago.
The very plot of land the manor was built on stood out in stark contrast to its surroundings, as it was the only soil in the area that did not show any signs of crops being grown there or animals grazing. Surrounded by a 220 cm tall wrought iron fence – plain to look at despite the expensive material, but heavy and durable – the plot appeared to be one big lawn or garden. The width of the property took up some 86 meters of the street and went some 62 meters deep, most of which seemed to be occupied by nothing but grass and weeds that ranged in height from knee- to waist-level. Only at the front of the property, the part facing the street, was the grass cut short and suggested a half-hearted attempt at some level of ornamental presentation, with a nicely pruned drakehorn tree bursting with ripe fruits to the right of the building and what appeared to be a cluster of rose-bushes growing right up against the fence with blooms ranging from deep red to bright pink. Though the front garden to the left of the building was mostly just grass, a keen observer might have noticed a fairy ring of white orb-like mushrooms on the lawn at about eight meters in diameter. Irah in particular would be quite likely to recognize it as a ring of horse mushrooms, which were edible and generally regarded as tasty, but sadly not particularly useful in alchemy.
At the very front of the property was a 12 meter deep and 10 meters wide protrusion from the main plot, where the fence took a 90 degree turn toward the street until it was right by it to then turn again and encircle the area. In the middle of the protrusion facing the fence was broken up by a six meters wide double gate of white-painted wood, which were currently opened inward, toward the manor. The gate lead to a broad path cobbled with some kind of flat, circular white stones that lead straight to the front door of the structure itself, on either side of which, directly against the wall itself, were two neat and strikingly beautiful and well-tended flower gardens, the plants in which looked far healthier and more vibrant than anything else on the property and which exploded into a multitude of blossoms in all manner of shapes and colors.
The building itself took up less than half of the plot it was built on, as though it was 70 meters wide it was only about 20 meters deep, with an eight meters long and six meters wide protrusion at the front that seemed to mimic that of the fence and meet the path from the gate with. While this protrusion was only one story tall, most of the main building stood two stories tall.
The architecture was a curious mix of traditional Rodorian and penin design, with very sharp, straight angles everywhere and a generally rather boxy shape and thick, sturdy brick and mortar walls that were left plain, but with exterior detailing in dark wood on the corners and over otherwise bare diagonals that made the surfaces more interesting. The south-side of the manor – the one facng the street and thus the one visible to everyone – also had seven square two meter cross-windows, with four on the ground floor – two on the wall to the left of the entrance and another two at the center, with one window on either side of the protruding entrance – and three on the second floor, again with two on the left, slightly offset from the pair almost directly below them, and one that sat directly above the entrance. All parts of the structure had gable roof with ceramic tiles that looked like they had once been clay-colored, but were stained with growths of dark-green moss and light-green algae.
There was no movement to be seen inside the windows, however; the entire structure was built on a tall foundation, so most of what one could see through them from outside was the ceiling.

Directly inside the gate and to the left were two four meter tall wooden post connected with a metal bar between them at the very top, from which hung the large brass alarm bell that was just now starting to slow its undulating movements and utter its final hesitant tolls before falling silent once more. The bell had been operated with the help of a rope hanging from it, which was currently being held by a muscular human man in a suit of brown brigandine armor, a shortsword at his hip and a crossbow leaned against the bell-post. He looked like he might be in his mid-thirties, clean-shaven and with short brown hair, intense eyes and looking notably unsettled. This fellow, one might notice, seemed to be leaning left, sparing his right leg and had a fresh-looking cut across his left cheek.
A couple of meters from the post and up the path toward the house was a whole little cluster of people. Two of them were humans: a well-groomed gentleman in nice, clean but otherwise unremarkable clothes with a thin mustache and short salt-and-pepper hair that looked like he might be in his late thirties; and a somewhat rotund woman that was also dressed cleanly and nicely, though she wore a mildly stained apron over her dress, with strawberry blonde in a tight braid that reached halfway down her back, who also looked to be in her late thirties.
The last person standing in front of the manor, being fussed over incessantly by the two human servants, was very noticeably not human. Less than a meter tall with a slim and athletic build, this elderly penin woman was dressed in a pair of tight-fitting linen trousers on her short, thin legs, a pair of nice buckled shoes and a black vest over a light-gray blouse. Her exoskeleton had a pale yellowish color and looked slightly uneven here and there, and her large, round eyes were strikingly neon-green in color. She also had a shortsword at her hip, albeit one that looked much more ornamental than that of the bell-ringer, and she was leaning her elbow in the stock of a remarkably well-crafted crossbow with the bow itself obviously being made from metal and some kind of winching mechanism for resetting the bowstring to the lock. The crossbow was nearly as long as the penin was tall.

Outside the gate all the would-be adventurers found themselves gathering in place of the incapacitated Fadewatchers. Jaelnec and Freagon both halted their horses and were just beginning to dismount when Yanin demanded that they identify themselves, only for Lhirin to immediately declare them as allies.
Planting both of his metal-clad feet heavily on the dirt road as he disembarked Xilos, Freagon turned to Yanin with his scarred and expressionless face as inscrutable as always aside from a slight momentary narrowing of his single eye. Beside him, just a couple of meters away, Jaelnec swung himself nimbly from Sabicia, reflexively holding on to his hat, while looking nervously from Freagon to Yanin.
Not that anyone could ever be entirely certain where, exactly, a nightwalker was looking; their uniform black eyes meant that the direction they were facing was the only indication one had of such. Even so there could be little doubt than Freagon's intense attention was solely on Yanin.
There was a slight, ambiguous twitch in the right corner of his mouth as he inhaled one last time through his cigarette before spitting it out into the street.
“Freagon, of the Knights of the Will,” he grumbled while reaching for the gauntlets and helmet he had hanging off the side of his horse's saddle. “The boy is my page. We're here to help.”

Over by the gate, Lhirin was addressing the armored bell-ringer with almost the exact same assurance as Freagon had had.
“Inside,” the man replied, moving toward the ascended deigan with an obvious limp. “Piece of shit guest doing some crazy magic, and –”
“Get off me! I told ye, I'm bûhlen fine!” the penin woman suddenly exclaimed, shrugging off her human servants, slunging her crossbow over her shoulder and striding as quickly toward the gate as her little penin legs allowed. Despite her age she seemed quite fit and healthy as she let her sharp, discerning gaze sweep over the highly unusual, motley crowd that had gathered outside her home.
Her servants started to follow, only to change their minds when their mistress shot them a quick glance, a soft smile and gently shook her head no.
Then the penin turned her attention back to Lhirin, who was the one that had spoken up first, and spoke quickly and clearly: “I still have guests inside. There are wraiths on the loose, don't know how many. 50 rodlin to each of ye if ye help.”

---

Noting the armored figure's injury, Lhirin nodded sharply in response to his words. He took in each piece of information without delay. Then the injured man was interrupted. Lhirin frowned, only half paying attention to the penin's words as he mulled over the first bit of explanation.

This was likely a separate issue from the bandits. Lady Bor's summons had--amusingly--attracted a summoner. How unfortunate.

Eyes snapping over to the penin, the deigan hybrid regarded the small old woman and found her suitably impressive for one of her status and stature. As she approached he noticed her kindly dismissal of her servants.

Tough, but not unreasonable nor arrogant, he noted, before totally dismissing the other two humans and looking down at the Lady Bor. She spoke and he lapped up each piece of information she offered with avid interest. His smile returned as she mentioned wraiths--an odd reaction surely.

'Wraiths!' he mused to himself, eyes alight with feverish interest. Lhirin's left hand reached down to his belt and unstrung his sheath from his hip. Grasping the handle in its construction, Lhirin took it in a reversed grip, the flat of the implement flush with the back of his arm. Its weight was a comfort.

“Mmm, Wraiths. I am familiar with their ilk, and their weaknesses,” Lhirin's grin widened slightly and he chuckled--as if this were a small matter. Then his expression changed all at once, becoming piercing and intense once more. “I am Lhirinthyl, Ms. Lady Bor. Mage. Scholar. Enchanter,” the words were clipped, perfunctory and he bulled on to his proper query, his former words a tacked-on phrase.

Idly, Lhirin channeled energy into his Runeblade and clearly--but quietly--uttered a single word in the arcane language.

Sharpness

The bronze blade pierced the stone of the path and sank into the ground before he ceased the flow of energy, embedding it for a moment. Lifting a finger of his thin right hand--now freed from holding his blade--Lhirin tapped his head. "The Deo'iel Guide to Survival, very useful to have memorized," he said, his grin flashing through the intensity. Then he leaned down and forward slightly, becoming serious again. “The wraiths, mmm...what manner of divines were summoned?”

That said, Lhirin sifted through his sensory memories, noting that the riders had identified themselves...or this Freagon had identified them both. He filed their names away for later, one of his fingers idly tracing the alphabetical symbols for their names in the empty air--no magic involved, just a sort of mnemonic device. One of many that he used.

While he waited for a reply--as little a wait as that may have been, Lhirin began to drum his fingers on the pommel of his runeblade's crystal handle. He was eager to get moving, but he would not go in unprepared. After all, while he was not cautious in the typical way of his kind, Lhirin was fortunately a rather experienced traveler and adventurer. He'd had his fair share of dicey encounters and he'd learned from each-and-every one--though not always the typical lessons that another might learn.

Still, it was enough that his experience--and voracious appetite for knowledge--directed him to survey a situation and gather as many facts as he could before throwing oneself into danger. Of course...he recognized that time was of the essence and that a thorough review of the facts could not always take place before an engagement. Still, this--for the moment--did not seem to be the case in their current circumstances. So, eager as he was, Lhirin did not act hastily but instead waited with bated breath for the Lady Bor's response.

Satisfied with the answer, Irah looked Nabi up and down and made various judgements about her appearance: she noticed first that Nabi’s eyes were similar to her own, crimson-red and intense. She was adorned well, too: flashes of silver in her ears, glints of ruby elsewhere, and a heavy pack of provisions she hefted about with ease. Some sort of traveller, though clearly on foot–where she’d come from was a mystery to Irah, but she did not afford herself the time to ponder it further before the ribbon of water whipped itself back up into her halo with a gentle splash. She didn’t speak any further to Nabi, instead motioning with her eyes and a nod of her head as she continued onward toward the manor.

As Sir Yanin spoke to her she paid him rapt attention, leaning in in an almost-conspiratorial fashion:

”Lhirinthyl, lightning mostly–though he’s also good against metal. He is deadly; be careful. I am Deo’Irah–Water is my element, as you can see. I am less lethal but not less dangerous.” she spoke, clear and concise, and her eyes flashing upward as she mentioned water. She glanced over at Yanin and Jordan for a moment, then, too: they seemed to be the sort to physically engage with their targets to perhaps the exclusion of all else (though, as she glanced down to his weaponry and noted the falcon-and-viper, she wondered if indeed his tongue might be as sharp as the blade). They could be relied upon to put themselves between her and harm’s way, whatever that ended up being.

She studied Freagon next, and Jaelnec (though it was immediately clear he was the underling in that relationship), focusing intently on Freagon. The way that he looked (she thought, quietly seething about how difficult it was to tell where Nightwalkers were looking and thus what they were interested in) at Sir Yanin was… well, it made her gaze feel soft by comparison. Two dominant personalities clashing, perhaps: she’d have to be very careful about how she negotiated her way around those two, if they were both to be useful without clashing. She would not suffer dissension in the ranks, not with innocent lives at stake. Still–the Knights of the Will… they’d been extinct longer than any given Nightwalker lived, hadn’t they? How could what he was saying be true?

She made sure to meet Jaelnec’s wandering gaze briefly, attempting to catch it during its arc between Fraegon and Yanin. She offered him a demure smile, a slight exhalation of breath escaping her nose, before she turned to look towards the rapidly unfolding situation. Her eyes widened a little as she looked down at the Baroness–quite the unusual turn of events, as she’d gotten rather used to looking up at people when travelling with Lhirin–and noted her lack of desire to be… attended to. That was the sort of thing that Irah would expect from an adventurer-turned-noblewoman, and a penin nevertheless. She had almost forgotten that Lady Bor was a penin, but the chatter she’d overheard about it when initially picking up the trail of her call to adventure was quite insistent on the fact that she was (and unusually so, in Irah’s mind–why should the fact she was a penin matter at all?).

She watched Lhirin ask his questions eagerly, her assessment of the Baroness increasing to the point that she wondered if they were simply being a bit precious with their high concept of duty–-she needed protecting, of course, but Irah could see a glimmer of independence in her that perhaps merited a lighter hand. She cringed at the sound of the bronze blade cleaving through the rock, settling her nerves by taking a smooth breath in through her nose and holding it, exhaling the irritation with it. She would teach him again about his manners later, for now, there was work to do. She stepped aside from the gathering in front of the gates (stealing a quick glance in the direction of Jaelnec as she did so) and stepped down the path briskly to join him, sensing her presence might be necessary after all to calm down Lhirin’s wild intensity. Not that she would make it any less intense: but less wild was usually a start.

”How many guests? You may not know of the wraiths formally, but how did they manifest, or what effects did they produce? Can you describe the summoner, so we can pick them out?” Irah continued, specifying Lhirinthyl’s questions with the softer details he might neglect. She continued to hold the water aloft above her without a second thought, only her right hand held demurely in an almost-clenching motion with her fingertips. The sudden burst of effort had somewhat sullied her robe, alongside administering to the patients nearby–and as she noticed, she directed a little ribbon of water to wash the bits away idly, while she looked at the diminutive figure of the Lady her periphery made sure to focus inwards, absorbing details in and around the house before them. In the back of her mind, she made sure also to keep Kinder informed of the goings-on, freely sharing her perceptions of the world and her thoughts. Playing host to a divine as she was, after all, was quite an advantageous position to be in for this particular predicament. She wasn’t sure whose favour she curried, to have been sent exactly where she appeared to be needed, but she did not permit herself to consider it more than that.

While it was hard for Jaelnec not to stare too openly at the petite deigan beauty that was Irah – though he did not know her name yet, nor did any of the others know his since Freagon had simply introduced him as “the boy” – from the moment she entered his vicinity, it became an impossibility for him to feign indifference when he realized that she was looking at him, meeting his obsidian gaze, and his mind started racing with dreams and fantasies of what meaning he could find in that simple connection. And just a moment later, time almost seemed to stop when a tendril of water snaked out of the liquid halo hovering above her to seemingly wash over parts of her form briefly. He swallowed hard, captivated and fascinated by the sight of this small white-clad woman, who somehow managed to seem defenseless even while demonstrating her dangerous magical powers, and whose choice of outfit seemed to so expertly straddle the line between being provocative and scandalous, both chaste and tantalizing at the same time.
It took until Freagon elbowed him in the ribs painfully for Jaelnec to remember that they were in the midst of urgent business. Freagon had already removed his cloak and thrown it over his horse, and while Jaelnec started frantically removing his own cloak, the older nightwalker slipped out of his black coat – leaving his lutrium cuirass bare and shimmering brilliantly in the sunlight – before slipping on his gauntlets and putting on his helmet, both visors still open.

Just several meters from there the penin woman broke eye-contact with Lhirin to instead stare incredulously at the spot by his feet where he had just ruined one of the stones that made up the path to the manor. Her chest expanded briefly as she puffed up a little, only to exhale and deflate again in an effort to control her temper; though it had clearly annoyed her, it did not seem as though she had any intention of making a fuss about it. Not at the moment, at least.
She did seem impatient to get things moving, however, and rolled her eyes when Lhirin assured her of his competence at handling wraiths and introducing himself, and seemed entirely unimpressed at his claim of having memorized the Deo'iel Guide to Survival.
Before she could give a reply to the male deigan's words, however, his female kinsman stepped in and interjected her own questions. The penin sighed, still impatient but clearly recognizing that the situation, as urgent as it might be, likely did call for slightly more than the smallest possible amount of information.
She ignored Lhirin and turned to Irah instead. “None of the wraiths have used magic. I have seven guests in there, one of which is the summoner. She'd be easy to recognize, she's the only Melenian among them.” The penin winced. “She's not controlling the wraiths, though, and I don't think she's summoning any more of them. I...”
The penin frowned and stomped her foot angrily. “Ah, bhûhl it, I might as well tell the entire story! I was trying to convince some of my guests to help with saving our town's healer, and the one's that actually seemed like the adventuring types had just started making plans for doing that. Then Feevesha – the Melenian – offered that she was a summoner and could aid the operation in that way, and it turned out that three of the other guests were damned witch-hunters! They attacked her and she panicked and summoned a wraith to protect her, and kept summoning more as she fled upstairs.”
She groaned in frustration. “Last I saw, most of my guests were fighting wraiths. I saw four of them.”

In Irah's head, Kinder hesitantly chimed in: “She's telling the truth. I can feel them inside, faintly, radiating... elation. Amusement. They are not under anyone's control, they are having fun. But I think I feel twelve angels inside. One of them much more powerful than the others.”

---

Nabi, satisfied that she was no longer in imminent danger of being assaulted by the water mage, returned to her previous stance, with her sabre at the ready. In her left, a small glow was beginning to form in her palm - those familiar with magic would recognise it as the beginnings of a pyromancer's magics. Nabi had yet to determine precisely which spell she would conjure, but the energy was now on-hand, and ready for action. She felt a slight wave of discomfort wash over her as she did so - a familiar feeling by now - but one word stopped her cold.

Wraiths.

A shiver ran down Nabi's spine, and she fought back a feeling of immediate panic. She was... at best unused to fighting such beings, at worst almost a complete novice. Though she knew at least they were easily-disrupted by magic, that was only somewhat cold comfort when one was bearing down on you at the rate of knots and you were trying to stammer out a spell to avoid their wrath. She vastly preferred foes that weren't only mildly-inconvenienced by a sabre cut through their torso, but one rarely had the chance of picking your enemies - especially as a near-stranger in a foreign land such as she was. However, the critical elements were now known to Nabi: an as-of-yet-to-be-determined-number-but-at-least-four wraiths, and one summoner, who may well have either lost count of them in a blind panic (to be fair, being attacked by witch hunters does do that to a person, Nabi thought to herself), or worse, had lost control of them. Suffice to say, the latter option was distinctly less appealing to Nabi than the former, as at least a summoner could be talked down from a situation, whereas wraiths running wild meant that they would likely have to deal with each of them in turn, and deal with them permanently.

Well, as permanently as one could when it came to wraiths, anyway.

"The longer we wait, the more damage wraiths can do. We should move as soon as we're able... I'm ready if everyone else is."
As if to emphasise her point, a small ball of flame burst into life in Nabi's palm, radiating a small amount of heat, but harmless.

---

With the shifting of Lady Bor's stare to the path beside him wherein Lhirin's runeblade stood, the deigan mage tilted his head, his brow creasing slightly. Then the penin, some emotion restrained on her face, turned her attention to Irah, who had joined him at the head of the mismatched party.

When the old adventurer chose to disregard him in favor of Irah, Lhirin only sighed slightly and closed his eyes. Listening with half his attention, Lhirin tried to figure out where he'd gone wrong. Perhaps his greeting had been too polite? Was it that he'd said too much too quickly? His eyes opened--gaze downcast even as he absorbed the words of those around him. He tilted his head as he noted where his runeblade had cut into the stone of the path. The irregular marks of stress around where it had pierced the well-arranged walkway.

The Walkway....

Lhirin frowned and despite the important story being relayed, he fixated on the marks his blade had created. With purpose, he grasped the crystal hilt of his blade and with a small flex of power, withdrew it smoothly from the rock. For a moment he surveyed the blade--it was unmarred--before he glanced at the grass of the manor lawn. Suddenly annoyed, Lhirin callously tossed the runeblade into the lawn perhaps two meters to his right--where no one stood in the path of his throw--before promptly disregarding the valuable weapon. Then, taking to a knee upon the path, Lhirin muttered a few words of the arcane language as he placed a hand upon the perforated stone.

Call Earth

Casting one of his simplest spells, Lhirin used only a small amount of his magical energy, guiding it in thin planes between the parts of the stone path that he had damaged. In the space of several seconds the stone almost seemed to flow like water until the gap between them where his sword had been placed disappeared, repaired by his efforts.

Still, it took its toll. Working earth was more taxing than piercing it or calling upon a bit of wind. Yet, despite this fact and the looming battle ahead of them, he'd done it anyways. Lhirin hated his ineptness with social cues. Disliked that he sometimes utterly disregarded that his actions might bother someone. Yet...he could not help but act thoughtlessly sometimes. So, this was his way of making amends. Pushing back to his feet, a frown still on his handsome features--though there were (as always) bags beneath his eyes from lost sleep--Lhirin turned his attention to Lady Bor.

While he didn't know if any of his other actions had left a sour taste in her mouth, there was little he could do about that, and further, they had a more pressing problem to solve.

“My Lady, we will exterminate these wraiths and see to the conflict between your guests. Thank you for the information, it is invaluable.”

Then, with a pause longer than someone who was more socially adept would take, Lhirin realized that there was another social ritual he could utilize to show his obeisance and respect.

He bowed at the waist, giving her what was perhaps an overly respectful social gesture. Then, with a nod--and a glance to Irah--Lhirin strode forth, chanting beneath his breath even as he took lightly tapped his runeblade with a foot as he passed. The spell initiated even as he seemed to leave it behind. The runes on his sheath, in the next moment, glowed an electric blue as Lhirin cast his right hand out in the direction of his runeblade.

Energy spidered forth from his fingertips in ghostly strands that met with the runeblade in an instant and cradled it in their grasp. Then the blade soared back through the air and its handle met Lhirin's palm.

However, he didn't dismiss the spell, instead lowering his input of energy to almost nothing and deliberately using only his own strength to move the runeblade. Repositioning his sheath along the back of his arm as he'd had it before, Lhirin continued forward, clearly intent on entering the manor.

The stranger--a woman by the voice--was right, as was Lady Bor, this was an urgent situation. The wraiths needed to be taken care of...and the summoner secured. They had what information the others could offer--by his estimation. Thus, it was time to act.

The male deigan was insistent the riders were not a threat even before they dismounted. Where from that certainty? Even if not conspired, several hostile parties could very well be in one place at the same time. Opportunism. Pick off the stragglers, claim whatever was advantageous, and most people would be none the wiser.
Most people here, at least those who reacted to the summons, were at least somewhat opportunistic. It would have been surprising enough if something like this hadn't already happened before.
Water. Lightning. Yanin simply nodded, sharply, still more focused on any motion that could be detected from the manor grounds, even as Lhirinthyl had made it head, and in a personal-space-defying manner that seemed characteristic to him, started questioning the first guy near the gate. One could only assume that much like the dead fellow in the Fadewatcher station, this one was one of Lady Bor's men.
A short distance back, there were two more humans - apparently domestic staff rather than fighters - and who was no doubt Lady Bor herself. Contrary to the fears of the watchmen back in the guardhouse, she looked to be doing just fine for herself, getting up there in age or not.
He himself was going to let the two other newcomers explain themselves before proceeding, however. The older rider, one-eyed and face more scar than skin, dismounted and took his time replying. The younger guy seemed to be looking from Yanin to his fellow rider - at least judging by the slight back-and forth notching of his head from the two being on opposite sides of one another. Neither of the two had visible sclerae or irides. Nightwalkers, then.
“Freagon, of the Knights of the Will,” the older nightwalker finally said. “The boy is my page. We're here to help.”
Yanin's helmet, being a helmet, quite fittingly had no expression to note, even though there was a good two-second beat. So it was that guy. His claims didn't make sense, but with him displaying equipment that would have made him well set for life if he ever wanted to put down his job, there was hardly any confusing him with any other contenders. The title itself, though? With no one to trulycontest him, the older nightwalker could have simply given it to himself. Not that Yanin couldn't understand the motivation. Titles were useful.
"Sir Yanin Glade," he simply stated. "Lieutenant of Fadewatchers." And promptly seemed to lose all interest in the nightwalkers for the time being, physically turning his attention to the manor, and tangentially to two deigan and the penin, instead.

"Jordan Forthey, squire of the Glades," Jordan offered next to and behind him, looking from Freagon to the "boy" who had not even been bothered to be named. Looked to be around his age, despite, apparently, only being a page still. And both of them were older than when Sir Yanin had been when knighted, although he was admittedly a bit of a special case. He shrugged. "Also a Fadewatcher, as of two years ago."

The others were busy requesting the manor inhabitants for more info, albeit in a rather verbose manner to contrast Yanin's own, rather terse manner of requesting information. It was only wonder people weren't more impatient than they appeared. Or perhaps the residents just hid it too well for Yanin to recognize it wt the best of his ability. Most likely the latter.
How many there were, who or what they were, what could they do... Probably a bit much to ask for the internal outlay of the building at this stage. They'd have to see as they go. Other questions, the two deigan mostly covered. Wraiths - at least four of them, perhaps uncontrolled, though no apparent magic. Yanin took a closer look at the - apparently steel - spear he was looking, and visibly scoffed. Seven guests, including the Melenian summoner and three overactive vigilantes.
"Not the first time?" he said at Irah, in a lowered tone. And, turning his head, mostly at Jordan, though equally loud and clear for anyone else who bothered to listen. "You use iron - the purer the better. Or magic." Much more pragmatic than simply announcing that he had heard about wraiths.

"Is summoning not illegal in Melenia or something?" Jordan asked, brow furrowed. A more socially adept individual might have inferred that is was a mostly rhetorical question rather than one he actually needed an answer to right then an there. Just ... sheer incredulousness at someone being dumb enough to just tell a room full of strangers that you were a summoner in a place were summoning most definitely was illegal.

The dark-skinned individual moved closer, the deep-red eyes looking from one to another as she urged each of them to hurry on before the wraiths could do even more damage. Now that he could see her up close, rather than through the slits of his visor and from more than hundred meters away with both of them running each in their own vaguely converging direction, it was also evident that the ears poking through her hair were long and pointed. Not human, then. Not that it mattered much at this time.
"Are you a fire elementalist?" he inquired, even as he tilted his head to observe the manor's iron fence. "And you're right. We can talk later. If someone has any iron at hand to spare, speak up. If anyone has not prepared something that might convince the wraiths to disperse, do so now. Wraiths can look like anything, as far as I know."
The manor looked still, deceptively peaceful. Door closed. No one close enough to windows to be seen. They'd probably have to breach again.
If no one had anything to offer, he began making his way toward the manor, , Jordan following him, wary and always keeping to the side of the door, keeping his attention divided on all of his surroundings with an almost inhuman diligence. As much as he lacked in making sense of the minute - and not so minute - details of humanoid expressions and intonations, he could notice many other details others missed. Especially if anything moved or made a sound.

A figure in dark green lingered behind, unarmored and apparently mostly unarmed - save for a dagger and a set of surgical implements.
"You're injured," she stated at the large man in brigandine armor as she sashayed closer, low voice quiet. "Is anyone else?"
It was a big manor for just a handful of people. She was moderately well-off herself - but she shared a much smaller two-storey building with two other business fronts with their owners' and their families' living quarters on the upper floor.

If Freagon had an opinion regarding anything Yanin said or did, be it his introduction or his apparent lack of interest in the old nightwalker, he did not show it. He shot a look at Jordan when he offered his introductions, just enough to signify that he was paying attention, but similar to Yanin, Freagon then turned toward the open gate and stepped onto the walkway as he finished fastening the straps of his gauntlets.
“I'm Jaelnec,” the younger nightwalker offered, looking at Jordan with a nervous smile and waving a hand at him in awkward greeting. But even then it only took a couple of seconds for him to glance back to his master, realize that he was moving and hurriedly follow him.

Approaching where everyone else was congregating, Freagon let his detached, dispassionate one-eyed gaze sweep over the crowd. He did not outwardly react to anything, and it was too difficult to tell exactly where he was looking to even guess at what he was thinking behind that expressionless face. He did offer a curt nod of the head upon hearing Yanin describe the most effective methods of fighting wraiths, as if in a vague sign of acknowledgment or approval. Then he stepped past and headed for the front door along with him and Lhirin.
As he strode down the short path before him toward the manor, Freagon reached his right hand to his left hip, grasped the ordinary-looking hilt sticking out of the ordinary-looking scabbard attached to his belt, and drew the sword in a quick, smooth movement. Though everything else looked normal, there was absolutely nothing ordinary about the blade. Impossibly pure, smooth and bright, its double edges curving gracefully along the length of its leaf-shaped contour. With a color that seemed like that of silver or even platinum, anyone familiar with extraordinary materials – and Irah in particular, who came from a city that on rare occasions had produced weapons like this – might realize that this was a sartal blade, and an incredibly well-made one at that.

While Freagon walked past without a word and Jaelnec hesitantly followed, the penin woman turned to Yanin with a serious mien and nodded her head resolutely. She pointed toward the front door. “Through that door, the first room is a small armory. There should be a few iron weapons, among other things.”

Taking a moment and listening closely, Yanin would just faintly be able to make out the sound of a woman crying loudly and desperately. It sounded like it came from one of the second floor windows.

Behind them, the bell-ringer – who had seemed somewhat relieved that attention had shifted from him to the penin woman – seemed surprised when Madara opted to address him rather than his employer.
“Ah, yes,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely at his right thigh. “The town was attacked during the night, and I...” He paused, shot a sidelong glance at how everyone else were focused on the manor and what was going on inside, and seemed to stop himself from telling the entire story. “It's just a flesh-wound, it can wait. I was lucky. I saw a couple of guys get clobbered pretty hard by one of those monsters inside while we escaped, though... they probably need help, if they're still alive.”

Walking up the six short stone steps ascending toward the entrance and turning the handles of the front double doors of Bor Manor – the door-handles themselves brass but otherwise plain, the doors made of dark, heavy wood with light iron studs and reinforcements with a simple brass door knocker on the right door – the door yielded freely, swinging inward with naught but a faint creaking sound on its hinges. Beyond the threshold was a room left in darkness, illuminated only by the sunlight pouring through the now-open front door, giving a sense that the further into the manor they ventured, the darker the shadows seemed to become.
They were met by the sight of a relatively small six by eight meter room that was mostly plain and utilitarian, with naked brick-and-mortar walls and a floor of somewhat rough stone. The room presented them with a straight walk across it to the next set of double-doors, almost identical to the ones they had just opened to enter this room, with an extinguished oil-lantern hanging in a thin chain from the ceiling halfway between the two doors, low enough that both Yanin and Freagon were in danger of hitting their heads against it. To their left as they entered they would find a series of three wooden weapon racks for storing weapons vertically, and to their right were five different mannequin-esque stands for storing armor or clothes.
One of the armor stands wore a simple set of gambeson and hauberk and a cervelliere on its head, while the one next to it was clad in the kind of coat of plates that was standard-issue for rural Fadewatchers. A third wore a simple but nice long leather coat, but the rest were entirely bare. The weapon stands contained a small selection of arming swords and short spears of steel, but also four of the iron truncheons that were also standard-issue for Fadewatchers, and which were known to be much purer iron than their other equipment. Even so, most of the space here seemed to be empty, either because the equipment that would have been there had already been taken or because the arrangement was designed for visitors to leave behind their weapons, armor and outerwear as they entered the manor.

The second set of double-doors opened as freely as the first, once more swinging away from those entering and inward, only this time into a much, much larger, more open, richer and – in some ways – more welcoming space. The room beyond these doors was 22 wide and 16 meters across, with a floor of smooth, light-gray square ten centimeter stone tiles arranged neatly in a grid-pattern, and the walls were clad with light wood panelling. The hall beyond was also much brighter than the armory they had just gone through, with sunlight streaming in not only from the large windows immediately to the right and left of the entrance that they had seen when first approaching the building, but also from above.
Directly in front of the door, starting but a meter from the threshold, the floor was clad in a thick five by eight meter woven rug, beautifully embroidered with abstract symmetrical ornamental patterns in reds, greens and blues. At the far corners of the rug started a symmetrical pair of stairways leading up to the second floor, widening as they ascended to a landing above that seemed to extend all the way along the wall but with an open center, meaning that the middle of the hall effectively shared its ceiling with the floor above, making it a good seven meters tall. Past the top of the stairways they would be able to see another pair of two by two meter windows on the north-facing second-floor wall that they had not been able to see from the south-side of the structure. A long chain hang from the far ceiling in the middle of the hall, suspending a brass chandelier above the rug, though it appeared that all but three candles on it had already burned out. On the wall directly opposite to where they entered the room, in the pride of place and obviously placed to immediately capture the attention of visitors as they entered, hang an impressive six meter wide and two meters tall painting.

Just as obvious and likely much more urgent to those who entered, however, was the sight of two figures about ten meters in front of the door, on the other side of the rug and between the two sets of stairs. To the right stood a man clad in patchy plate armor that looked like it was probably iron rather than steel, with an iron-studded and -banded round shield in his left hand an a silver longsword in his right. He was clearly beaten and bloody, his face almost entirely coated in blood that seemed to be pouring from a head-wound mostly hidden by his hair. It would be obvious even at a glance from this far away that his left forearm was broken just past the elbow, bending in a very unnatural way under the weight of the shield it wore.
Across from the man, a mere couple of meters from him, stood a bizarre visage facing him. A round wooden table, maybe a meter across, was lightly tapping its feet on the stone-tiled floor, its legs moving as though alive, while a pair of wooden dining chairs stood with their backrests seemingly fused to the tabletop, twisted and facing in the direction of the man across from it, with the legs of the chairs awkwardly waving and twitching like the legs of some horribly misshapen insect, filling the air with the sound of creaking and cracking of wood. A simple pewter three-pronged candleholder wiggled back and forth on the table as well, with the two candle-less arms furthest to the sides having bent themselves down and toward the man as well. As the door opened, however, the candleholder abruptly twisted itself to turn its arms toward the intruders, revealing that the tip of each arm held a sharp, unnatural orange-yellow glow.

“Please help!” the man called, his voice extremely hoarse and raspy. Despite his obviously bad condition he kept his shield and sword up as what the adventurers would most likely realize was probably a wraith turned its attention back to him and started slowly advancing in his direction. “Hurry!”

Deo’Irah’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of witch-hunters, her otherwise serene face tensing in some micro-display of… something. Contempt. Weaponised ignorance, fueled by a zealotry matched only by those followers of Korval Irah paid particular attention and obeisance to–and though the expression lasted only a fraction of a second, Irah’s thoughts and feelings were of course open to Kinder: there was no fear of their abilities or their persecution, only a tense knot of worrying how much energy they’d have to expend that could otherwise be used productively. She hoped only that they’d let words solve their differences, rather than force her to… well. She did not let her mind drift precisely to the consequences, hoping that forbearance would help her channel the mien of mercy she’d require to ameliorate this particular situation most effectively. She internally mused for a moment how much more exciting this little visit to Borstown was becoming than she’d intended–she even considered for a second that the Lady Bor might have concocted this adventure as a last try to find worthy heirs of her legacy, but quickly dismissed the thought: it seemed both impractical and callous, neither of which she read in the diminutive lady of the house.

”Thank you for the answers, Lady Bor. We will do what we can to save your guests.” Irah replied, her tone even and measured. She took her left palm and extended it out towards Lady Bor, held it for a half-second, and placed it upon her heart gently as she turned to walk up the path towards the manor. She studied Lhirin, glad he’d finally realised how rude he’d been without meaning to and at least attempting to make amends. Still, there was no time–before the others walked up, she leaned in to whisper to him in Gazzerashei:

”Witch-hunters–they will target me over even the summoner, as soon as they realise I am currently hosting an angel. Never mind my other forbidden talents–be sharp. We mustn’t kill them, but nor can we brook their interference. I will… explain to the human knight–he reminds me of you. Not telling you the truth ends poorly.” she spoke, her words somewhat hurried given that all were going to begin making their way into the manor soon. As the various tributaries once again converged into a great river Irah made sure once again to fall by the side of Sir Yanin Glade, to continue their conversation from earlier–and she prompted him to lean down a little and listen to her.

”... I sense that you appreciate directness, Yanin, so I will be direct.This is, indeed, not my first time…” she began, her tone candid but playful, and a surprisingly mirthful smirk upon her face, ”... the witch-hunters are going to be problematic. You can expect them not to be friendly to us–we should deal with them accordingly.” she finished, though her tone stiffened towards the end and the congeniality seemed to cool a little as she focused up and walked forwards, striding confidently up the stone steps towards the doors within–she breathed in steadily through her nose and returned to a position of familiar aloofness, suddenly quite uncertain about her snap judgement of Sir Yanin and the confidence she’d placed in him with her allusion. She only hoped it would buy them enough time–she could explain things in more detail later, the lens of gratitude their inevitable success would later provide affording her a much more agreeable environment with which to provide answers. Truthfully, she would not lose much even if he reacted poorly–nothing short of mindless aggression he had thus far not displayed would be a problem she could not simply deal with later.

Irah permitted herself a little smirk at Jordan’s comment, quite amusing given the situation she now found herself in, though she imagined that he’d heard her too and might perhaps be rethinking the statement. She did not permit herself to look at him to determine his reaction, however, as the elder Nightwalker withdrew his blade. The world around Irah seemed to pale in comparison, suddenly, as from a perfectly mundane scabbard, a perfectly mundane grip drew forth something decidedly extraordinary. Irah felt her heart quicken for a moment and a short gasp escaped her lips involuntarily. ”Jehla vrehiel…”

Sartal. She’d always wondered why the Nabathsetwehl'amet'sartal never bought any inventory from them, even though she’d offered to sell to them at very reasonable rates. It was one of the great mysteries of her people, and something she’d idly let mull about in her thoughts for a long time now–something she’d not gotten any closer to a real answer on. She struggled for a second to regain her previous decorum as she stared at it intensely, her eyes taking on something of the feral quality that was normally only observed in Lhirin. The thoughts consumed her for a second more than she’d have liked before she gained some measure of control over herself and managed to speak again of her own volition, eyes blinking as though she’d just stared into the sun itself for a moment. It was a droplet of water weeping down and landing in her still-held hand that broke her from her reverie, and just as quickly as her eye refocused they became trained on Freagon.

”I would like to hear the story of that blade, when the day is won.” she spoke to Freagon in Fermian, assuming that he could understand the language if he had a blade made of sartal. A fresh wave of nausea made her stop for a moment, and she made a gentle movement with her finger to prompt a little stream of water to make its way to her mouth so she could sup from it. She cleared her throat for a second and composed herself, feeling unusually unsteady in that very heady way as she fought to unify her errant and fraying thoughts.

She would wait a moment for everyone to catch up (though she of course kept an eye out for Jaelnec, who she expected might attend her as she had looked somewhat unwell for a second) and focused on breathing, letting herself settle into a gentle rhythm of breath. She realigned her senses with the world, feeling the flow of her magical energy and the way that it clashed against the divine energy of Kinder residing within her, and focused on her surroundings more intently. She would need to be keenly aware of her surroundings given Lady Bor and Kinder’s warnings–and as she extended her awareness outwards, she became increasingly aware of… she was not quite sure. It felt so odd–the streams of magic that she extended outwards to the water above her in order to manipulate it… She turned her head upwards to look, the water’s otherwise perfectly smooth form beginning to drip in places, the halo seeming almost to melt beneath the gaze of some unseen sun.

She willed even more of the energy out than before for a brief second, feeling the further outpouring buoy her control of the mass of water above her. She stepped back for a moment, retreating to the very entrance of the armoury, and willed around half of the water that she’d been using down, her hand clenching slightly as she ceased providing the magical energy to manipulate it and set it down by the garden. She also extended her awareness out towards the assembled multitude of individuals that appeared to be answering adventure’s call–she could feel Lhirin even now, like the charge in the air before a storm. Bristling and ready. The others… she didn’t think it was coming from them, but in order to know that, she’d have to know more than she presently knew: which was nothing.

”... there are, I think, 12 angels inside–one of them far more powerful than the others. There’s also something happening to my magic…” she began, looking towards Lhirin (no doubtedly having experienced the same thing as her) for an explanation when none came to her.

When the next set of doors were opened and the group advanced into the hall, Irah’s attention snapped immediately towards the wounded man and his cries for help–and then to the wraith that had (quite rudely) animated some of Lady Bor’s furniture. Her first thought was to what type of angel this might be, and which God it would belong to: if she was lucky, it might be the sort of spirit she may be able to talk down… If she was even luckier, it might be one that could provide her with useful information. Still, more likely than that was that it’d get beaten to a pulp before she had to expend any of her limited (and suddenly increasingly taxed) magical energy. Her eyes flashed immediately to Madara, too, and she nodded in the direction of the wounded man–though she didn’t explicitly speak in the moment, her body language and gesticulations were such that it would be obvious of her intention: they’d best move together, seeing as their skills would be needed together.

---

While Lhirin absorbed the various utterances of those behind him, the only ones that found significant purchase were Irah's. Though he made his judgements in a flash, Lhirin reevaluated his initial thoughts on the witch hunters, given Irah's warning. He gritted his teeth slightly, the sensation of them grinding helping him offset the anger he felt for their ignorance and zealotry. Thoughtless, but sadly not incompetent. He'd keep a closer eye on them when they came into view, but before that....

Lhirin glanced repositioned his left arm, putting his sheath's surface in view once more. This done he began to chant, his words quiet but precise. The runes on the ebon wood of the sheath's surface began to glow as he channeled energy through the implement. Then, as he entered the armory, he completed his spell. There was a brief actinic flash, like a scattering of faint sparks across the surface of the sheath, then his blade, then his person. It faded in the next instant replaced by a strange warbling pressure in the air around the deigan mage.

Magnetic Field.

While the spell split his attention, he figured it was worth it and quite swiftly it might become apparent why that was the case as a pouch at his waist opened by its metal button and a series of thirty 6-inch long iron needles floated out from the leather. The needles arranged themselves in a halo around his runeblade where they remained as he walked.

As the concentration necessary to manipulate the needles waned with them being put in position, Lhirin swept his gaze over the armory. He noted the various weaponry on display and took the equivalent of several visual snapshots for posterity. He noted each iron implement present and then turned his gaze to the second set of doors. With their being metal in the handles, Lhirin stretched out his magnetic field and turned them, before using those same door knobs as a point to push upon. Altering the polarity of the field at that point and pumping through a small burst of additional energy, Lhirin willed the two doors forth. They swung open before him revealing the room for all of them.

While he took in the environs they were to fight within, Lhirin made a note of any magnetic materials he could see. Iron and steel primarily, before settling his gaze upon the only moving details of the room, the two figures at its center.

Yet, before he could take them in entirely, Lhirin felt the drain on his reserves and a sound not unlike a low growl left his lips. Then things came into focus a strange construct of furniture--clearly a wraith--and an armored man, beaten and bloodied. The man, clearly on his last legs, called out for assistance. Lhirin's iron needles drooped slightly and he felt the weakening of his other spell: Bound Blade. Reasserting his control and ensuring the spells had enough energy, Lhirin took a deep breath and acted without hesitation.

Unseen, though likely not undetected, paths of magnetic energy--created by his prior spell, Magnetic Field--shot forth towards the wraith. Once those paths were slightly more than halfway established, Lhirin had them overlap with the positions of ten of his iron needles. In response the needles flashed forth, following the magnetic fields at speed like tiny 6-inch arrows, where they made to embed themselves in the wraith's makeshift body. Once he'd released the projectiles, Lhirin continued into the room, his narrowed silver eyes locked upon the wraith as he made his approach.

As everyone started filtering into the armory and short conversations were being had here and there, Freagon started marching straight through without caring, only to then slow his stride and glance toward Yanin and Jordan getting some iron weapons from one of the racks. Finally, when he was just a couple of short steps from reaching and opening the door that would lead into the hall, Freagon stopped entirely and turned around.
“You take one too, boy,” he ordered Jaelnec, who was trailing several meters behind him, only to slightly raise an eyebrow as he realized that the younger nightwalker's attention seemed to be less on him and more on Irah... and that this female true deigan was looking first at his sword, and then at him, before stating her desire to hear the story of his blade.
The grizzled old knight narrowed his eye at her and his jaws worked as if chewing on some imaginary thing in his mouth. He would have ignored her and just carried on walking, had he not decided to wait a moment anyway for his page to retrieve a larger iron implement. Not that he figured Jaelnec would need it; Freagon was confident that he could destroy any divine in the manor before they reached him, and even in the event that one did reach Jaelnec, the boy had a knife and bracers of mostly pure iron specifically for situations like this. But it was better to be safe than sorry.
Even waiting passively as he did in this moment, Freagon figured that he could easily just pretend to not understand Fermian and be entirely justified in ignoring her... but that could result in some annoying discussions later, when the others learned that he actually did speak Fermian. The girl did seem decently skilled with magic and seemed confident about her magical reserves. Her, the male deigan, Sir Yanin Glade... there was potential here. It was probably best to not needlessly antagonize any of them. Yet.
“We will see,” the old nightwalker replied noncommittally in Fermian, making a mental note to prepare himself and decide exactly how much he was going to divulge to her. It was far from the first time anyone had asked him about Roct, of course – practically every true deigan he met seemed to feel entitled to an explanation as to why he, a nightwalker, owned such a thing – and normally he told them the barest minimum. But if he really was going to try to get along with this one, slightly more than minimum might be better.

“I can feel it too,” Kinder reported in Irah's head after she had announced that something was off about her magic. “I can still feel the angels inside, but it is as though something is obscuring my senses. Be careful, Deo'irah; I cannot tell where the angels are right now.”

Jaelnec had naturally assumed a defensive position to guard Irah as soon as they moved to enter the manor and only left her long enough to obey his master's command to retrieve an iron truncheon before hurrying back to her side. He would seem concerned at the signs of her seeming unwell, but also focused, alert and tense, setting aside business that did not seem urgent for as long as he sensed that there might be danger afoot.
For a moment he held the blunt instrument in his right hand as his only weapon, shifting it back and forth a little and turning it in his grip, feeling its weight and balance, then he switched it to his left hand before reaching his right one for the hilt at his left hip. He drew his own sword in a motion that was almost an exact replication of the one Freagon had brandished his weapon with, but unlike his master, the blade that emerged from his scabbard was nothing special. A steel blade of middling quality, its surface scuffed and its edge chipped here and there, well-sharpened and -maintained as much as one could on the road, but obviously worn and getting toward the end of its lifespan.

While everyone else were making their last preparations in anticipating of having to face down summoned divines, however, Lhirin merely had to cast Magnetic Field to manipulate a host of iron needles and swung open the doors to the hall.
The barrage of needles struck the wraith's mostly-wooden body with a loud, rapid series of dull thuds and the sound of splintering wood, and a faint, ghostly voice cried out in agony as it seemed to stumble away, further into the room, only for both chairs to seemingly lose whatever semblance of cohesion they had with the table and clatter noisily to the ground. The table and candleholder was still moving, albeit obviously much slower and more awkwardly than a moment ago, but the chairs had been rendered inanimate by the injection of iron.

His eyes forward, locked on the weakened wraith in front of him, Lhirin stepped forth into the hall... only for his view of the wraith to abruptly become obscured by a mostly-transparent visage that filled his entire field of view the instant he stepped across the threshold. He would feel a warm, wet tightness envelop his head, cover his eyes and ears; suddenly, even though he stood on dry ground, Lhirin's entire head was submerged in water. The liquid instantly prevented him from breathing, only for the water pressure to swiftly increase, especially around his neck, further cutting off airflow, and then pulling up with enough strength to lift the dainty deigan's feet off the ground.
Sitting on the wall directly inside the hall and above the door Lhirin had just walked through, where it could not easily be seen from beyond the doorway, Lhirin would come face-to-face with the creature that had just ambushed him. It appeared as something that only vaguely resembled a creature in the first place, being mostly just an ever-shifting, shapeless blob of water aside from the one pseudopod that had extended to envelop his head and capture him. The only distinctive feature of it seemed to be a pair of yellowish-orange lights within the liquid, staring at him with glee.

The people behind Lhirin might see the tip of this water-pseudopod dart down from above and envelop Lhirin's head in one rapid movement, only for it to disappear upward along with Lhirin a second later with an audible squelching noise.

Yanin nodded, once and over his shoulder, at Lady Bor's notion that there would be an armory right past the main entrance. Convenient if you wanted to grab some weapons to protect the front door. Potentially almost as convenient if you wanted some extras when entering the manor, which was most likely rather atypical use case for someone on the side of the rightful owners of the manor. This time, odds were ever so slightly in their favor.
No motion that he could see. There was the faint sound of crying from one of the rooms. Seemed more human than Melenian. He made a note of the window.
Deo'Irah whispered something to her companion; he couldn't make out a word. Might have been the same language he had briefly heard from Lhirinthyl earlier. Just as quickly as she was done communicating with the male deigan, she moved over to him, prompting Yanin to half-turn his head and lower himself to mitigate him being nearly a third taller than she was.
”... I sense that you appreciate directness, Yanin, so I will be direct." It, generally, made everyone's life much easier. His especially. Socializing was a game with too many unwritten rules and hidden meanings, rules and implications he didn't instinctively know, but had to learn and consciously spot, or worse, just guess. And hope he was right. At best, people were irritated, at worst, removal of undesirable elements was a definite option for less moral forces. As long as he managed to avoid the latter, how much would be left for the first? "This is, indeed, not my first time…” She was ... smiling? One of those expressions. Probably not happy - there was not much reason to be happy. Friendly, maybe. Polite. ”... the witch-hunters are going to be problematic. You can expect them not to be friendly to us–we should deal with them accordingly.”
What in the Realms have you done? Nothing that had reached his usual outpost in Etlon, that much was certain... Either it was recent and local, which meant she had a transgression that was known to local vigilantes ... but not known enough for the Fadewatchers or Lady Bor and her folks to take immediate notice of her presence. Or there was something on her that would be noticeable. Not just noticeable upon search - some self-appointed activists were not going to have a reasonable excuse to commit to a search when the actual law was present.
No, if she hadn't a reason to suspect these were witch-hunters she had met before, it had to be something one could notice from afar. Yanin himself couldn't, so not a regular unusually perceptive person, and she had not been worried about the Fadewatcher. A skilled mage, then? Mind control? Summoning - like the Melenian? Wild magic? Necromancy? Wasn't necromancy the only one of those that affected one's soul outside of its active use? Seemed most likely. The follower of Reina, of all people, had learned the art of necromancy? Us... We... Both her and Lhirinthyl, then?
The laws were in place for a reason. The mess in the manor was a living proof of it, summoners losing control of their thralls, vigilantes acting without rhyme and reason causing unknown amounts of collateral damage where doing literally nothing might have just maintained the existing state of affairs... Pursuing every transgression in full force was not always to everyone's best interest. At least as long as no harm had been knowingly done to someone innocent.
"Best for you to not draw their attention, then," he simply stated in a low tone, proceeding forth without further comment. Details could be worked out later.
The older nightwalker, armor glinting in colours of more worth than most people saw in their whole lives, had caught up with them in the mean, drawing an equally, if not more impressive sword. It looked silvery, but silver readily tarnished, just ever so subtly too bright to be even the most carefully polished steel. Deo'irah was immediately interested, inquiring about it in Fermian. A rare specialty of true deigan - you could probably buy an entire city for a sartal sword that flawless.

"Miss, are you okay?" Jordan asked somewhere behind Sir Yanin, reflexively halting and holding out his non-spear-bearing arm and hand when it momentarily appeared that she might falter and fall, briefly stopping half a step head of her. Since Jaelnec had self-assigned himself to protect the deigan woman, it briefly appeared that she had spontaneously obtained two bodyguards. After a few seconds, though, Jordan's vaguely concerned eyes going from the deigan to his master, the squire hurried on, even as Deo'Irah turned some of her controlled water to ice and set it down, and Sir Yanin appeared to perform one last check before actually entering the armory, even as Lhirinthyl relentlessly marched forward amid chanting up a spell.

There was no movement in the immediate inside. Deo'Irah commented something about her magic, and twelve angels. That was quite a bit more than Lady Bor had counted, if accurate... Don't draw attention. Useful though the information may be.
The only evidently iron weapons in the room appeared to be four iron truncheons, both himself and Jordan grabbed one after setting their borrowed spears down.
Lhirinthyl didn't bear to wait, and magic swung the double doors open to reveal a bleeding man and a peculiar conglomeration of Lady Bor's currently appropriated furniture, twisting in preparation of facing its previous or new opponent. The injured man's equipment stood out, however - darker, maybe iron. And this sword might actually have been silver. Things to counter magical opponents.
It was not unlikely, then, that this was one of the "witch-hunters" that had contributed to the mess. It might be best to inform Deo'Irah to leave this one to the surgeon, at least until proven otherwise. Lhirinthyl sent a number of small metal projectiles flying into the makeshift body of the table-wraith ... but despite having access to iron projectiles, continued forth into the room, breaking at least a few cardinal rules for winning unstructured combat. Never leave yourself exposed or enter areas without checking them as closely as possible. If possible, fight only one opponent at a time. That was at least two, if not three.
"Sil-" Yanin had began, even as the table-wraith recoiled and- Something grabbed Lhirinthyl. "Ah, fhh-"
He moved immediately, grabbing hold of the final truncheon with his remaining free hand, darting two strides forward forward, left arm with one properly held truncheon moving into high block ready to transition into parry or hit, right drawn back with the other held loosely by the end, taking the final stride into the doorframe, leaving the other foot back and lowering his body - just a glance was enough, at Lhyrinthyl, at the liquid blob trying to reel him in - and the right arm moving forward and up in an facsimile of a vertical axe-throw, aimed at the center-mass of the blob.
As soon as the weight of the weapon was no longer touching his right gauntlet, he was already carrying his weight back onto his trailing foot, quarter-turning and half retreating back behind the doorframe, still ready to deliver a follow-up parry or attack. All in one seamless motion, sent only by the inevitable clinks of metal from the rapid motion and one breath released, and one drawn. In the background, Jordan began to move himself to the other side of the open door.

Taking a kilogram of iron in the face was bound to be rather distracting if you were made of water and intolerant of iron.



“Ah, yes. The town was attacked during the night, and I...” The man gestured at his thigh. “It's just a flesh-wound, it can wait. I was lucky. I saw a couple of guys get clobbered pretty hard by one of those monsters inside while we escaped, though... they probably need help, if they're still alive.”
Madara winced, softly, compassionately. "We - myself and the deigan follower of Reina - arrived at the guardhouse not long before the bell called for aid." She shook her head. "The three we didn't have time to do much for should be fine for now, but we're going to have to return there. We'll return to you, too." She looked up at the man's face. Trying to determine if she should inquire about the state of the manor more. Maybe a little. Maybe the rest later.
"There have been more people here in days gone, no?" Baroness Vela Bor's entire party. And now? A couple of servants, a couple of guards - maybe a handful of guards before this day. Seemingly hardly any people who were actual friends. Quite sad, in a way. Being old should not mean being stuck to the past.
"I am no fighter - I'm merely a surgeon and a seamstress from a town a bit larger than this one." Madara smiled sadly. "But I will see if I can help anyone in rooms the others have under control. Unless you know something that might help us?"

Yanin acted immediately, decisively and cautiously, rushing to Lhirin's aid and throwing his freshly acquired truncheon at the wraith hiding above the door. The hunk of iron hit the water with a splash, sending a cascade of water suddenly spilling onto the floor from the point of impact as the iron disturbed the angel's control of its vessel. only seemed to continue to inconvenience it as it seemed to suddenly struggle greatly to even maintain its shape, let alone manhandle its hostage.
But even as the wraith lost its grip on the wall and fell to the ground with a loud splash, it remained just vaguely cohesive, though it kept “bleeding” water from its from and shrinking as the iron kept weakening it.

It did manage one last act of defiance, however: as it fell, the wraith extended Lhirin just slightly into the room before releasing him, dropping him just a couple of meters beyond the doorway, directly onto the ornate rug decorating the floor in the hall. And the second the deigan half-breed touched the rug, the cloth seemed to abruptly jolt to life, jump up, fold in on itself and wrap around him tightly, wrapping him in a cocoon while squeezing him like a python.

But as soon as Lhirin disappeared inside the rug, the wounded man that had seemingly been fighting the wraiths immediately rushed toward him.


“More people?” The bell-ringer seemed confused as to what Madara meant. “There have been guests, of course, but otherwise it's just been Lady Bor and us. Wade and Kylie take care of the day-to-day, and Quintin, Byron and I just help out.” He winced. “Byron... didn't make it. Bandits got him. Quintin went to track the bastards, but he hasn't come back since.”
The man seemed to fall into thought for a moment when she asked if he knew anything that might help. “I don't know if this is important,” he said hesitantly, “but I saw the summoner drink a vial of something while she was running up stairs. I think it might have been piaan.”

---

Victor, Victim. As ever, the dividing line between the two was a perilous one and Lhirin had not walked it well. Still, with two spells and the threat of suffocation on his mind, the deigan mage hardly had the time to consider things for more than an instant. Instead, what he was dealing with was what most would consider primal fear. Lhirin considered it an annoyance. It was something he'd trained to resist, both with Irah and before her. So, when his head was suddenly enveloped in water and his neck strained, body lifted from the ground, Lhirin clamped down hard on his emotions even as he fixated even more intensely upon his spellcraft. There was a brief stutter in the hovering formation of iron nails surrounding his runeblade, then nothing. Yet, before Lhirin could act something splashed into the midst of the wraith.

He felt the hold on him loosen, but could not quite react in time to take advantage. The only thing he managed as he was deposited into the wraith-possessed rug was to land squarely in a kneel. His shin ached from the impact, but the feeling was distant as the decoration swallowed him like some cloth maw.

The constriction was unbelievably unpleasant, but unfortunately for the rug, Lhirin had not lost hold of his spells, or even his runeblade. Thus, Lhirin directed the needles that surrounded it using his Magnetic Field spell and had them simultaneously impale the rug from multiple angles. While a far off feeling of frustration simmered in the back of his mind, Lhirin kept himself from burning through the rug instead.

He didn't want to offend the Lady Bor any further, after all.

Amid the many things going on, the deigan couple, the two nightwalkers - the younger of whom seemed friendly enough, if a bit shy, and the older of whom had every bit of the approachability Sir Yanin had, along with seemingly similar amount of love for chatter.
It had taken a few years to get used to the thought that his (back then future) master was not actually an intrinsically violent man, just exceptionally capable at fighting. And distrustful. And duty-bound. And about as hopeless with being socially agreeable as he was intelligent and liable to remember everything ever said and done. It remained to be seen if it was any similar with Sir Freagon, but something in the look was immediately similar.
Granted, the tall human knight was currently fairly talkative for himself, seeing how he had a specific task to focus on, a task that required coordinating. Jordan suspected that it had something to do with tactics being approachable with sheer logic, no emotion of innate understanding of empathy required. Almost as if people were slightly less reliable weapons to be commanded, rather than ... well, people. Once the fight was over and the living weapons returned to being humans and deigan and penin and nightwalkers and assorted other folks, Sir Yanin Glade went back to compensating for cluelessness with borderline paranoia.
If "the boy's" - Jaelnec's - master was anything like his, then some amount of apprehension was understandable. Trust me, I don't even know why am I bothering half the time, either. Three whole years, and it seemed he had no more hope at ever being his master's equal than the day he had started training. At least until the few actual conflicts as a guard came up, and at least somewhat fortified the understanding that the average person knew to fight ... almost not at all. And the average thug was not vastly better, relying on ambush and being bigger, stronger and more armed than the hapless target.
So perhaps not quite as hopeless. He didn't need to be better. He didn't even be as good. He just needed to be good enough. Use the environment. Use every single unfair advantage there was. Isolate your opponents. Never leave line of sight or yourself exposed.

The deigan woman - Deo'Irah - seemed to be faltering. Had she already spent herself healing others? That was ... concerning. Jaelnec seem to have taken to guarding her especially, which was... Well. She was a petite woman, bestowed with the same beauty deigan were famed for, wearing garments that were very from-fitting and a touch too thin for the advancing autumn, and they were essentially marching into battle. It probably wouldn't have taken too much effort from her to make Jordan himself noticeably flustered. Jaelnec was just slightly too obvious about it even without her doing anything. Besides, she already came with a companion.
Once inside, he followed Sir Yanin's example and swapped the spear for a truncheon, only for Lhyrinthil to wander too deep in his assault, be caught, and prompt the knight to grab a second truncheon and rush to intervene before the wraith could just go and snap the mage's neck. By the time Jordan made his own way over to the other side of the door, his master had already thrown the extra lump of metal and retracted to the comparative safety of the manor, causing the animated water to toss the male deigan aside and fall in front of the door.
Driven mostly by the appearance of the lump of fluid close to his feet and vaguely assuming Sir Yanin would be able to counter whatever else tried to lung at him from his high guard with the remaining truncheon from the other side of the door, Jordan took a half-step forward, careful to only expose only his arm and the truncheon to bring the latter down on the barely coherent remnant of the wraith, and, if it dispersed, use its end to swipe the fourth truncheon back into the armory, along with retracting himself and sending a glance behind him, at the little congregation of people who had yet to join the fight - the nightwalkers, Deo'Irah, and the black-skinned newcomer, who appeared equally ready for combat and indecisive.
Lhirinthyl didn't seem to be faring quite as well, as just as he landed on his knee, the carpet came to life and wrapped itself around him.



Sir Yanin, ever ready to act upon anything that decided to come for his squire or any other of them, was making a mental list of everything that was in the room, from the two destabilized wraiths, to the third, new one, to the image on the opposing wall, to the brief image he had been able take in as he reached out, to anything that could move freely, from dust to ... hopefully not the walls of the manor itself.
There was a glint of metal in the air; Lhirinthyl's magic still held. Good control. The injured potential witch-hunter moved forward.
"You!" the human knight snapped at him. The glint of metal flashed into the rug. The table was still scampering about. Before anything else happened and if need be, he would have just about enough time to give a single other instruction, or more likely direction - left, right, up, down, halt, back, stop, forward, retreat. With his equipment it was not overly likely one of the wraiths would like to give him a hug, but throwing something at him or magic were still options.
As were, equally and indistinguishably, sheer unadulterated fanaticism and some misguided attempt to help on the other side.




A big yet empty house indeed. Even with their brief interaction, one could tell that Baroness Vela Bor was still an adventurer at heart, not pampered nobility. Might nevertheless have gotten more than she bargained for when she eventually brought the adventure to her instead.
Madara lightly touched her fingers to the man's shoulder and looked up at him as he explained their situation. Their losses. The unspoken probability that his second colleague might not return, either. Back in the guardhouse, the more combat-oriented types had promised to try and get the healer back. Yet to be seen if they'd be more successful, should the battle be won here.
Her eyebrow raised slightly as he continued to answer her second question, awaiting, until finally expressing... Ah! Naturally, it could be quite important indeed. Could make the lives of those inside quite a bit more interesting.
"Of course it is important," she affirmed - tone more assurance than scolding. But also a tiny sliver of the latter - self-doubt could easily bring men and women to ruin. "If you're right, it could yet beget a much more significant affair, and a lot less reason." Amber eyes narrowed as the half-palanter glanced at the unassuming form of the manor, fingers absently slightly tightening their grip on the man's shoulder. "Thank you."
And just like that, she was gone, her slender and strong figure almost gliding down the short path to the manor.

Inside, the assortment of armored and magical combatants had already engaged; she herself remained by the exterior entrance for the moment, quite content with letting the fighters render the room mostly safe before getting herself further involved.
"Evidently," her voice cut over the ruckus, eyes fixed pointedly on the two nightwalkers, as they seemed to be the least busy out of the lot with the humans and deigan tackling at least three wraiths and barking orders at someone stumbling around further inside, "The little summoner imbibed something as she fled to the upper floor. Might have been piaan. Thought you lot might want to take note of it."

The twenty remaining iron needles pierced the rug with ease, but while Lhirin would feel its death-grip on him loosen to the point where it no longer threatened to crush him, it did not seem as though it was enough to dissuade it from keeping him in place and blinded. The cloth writhed and twisted around him, rubbing the somewhat coarse woven fabric against him. The thick cloth even muffled sound from outside it quite significantly; while it was no longer immediately dangerous on its own, this rug-wraith was quite well-suited for immobilization and sensory deprivation.

It was Jordan, it turned out, who claimed the final blow to the greatly weakened water-wraith with a decisive downward strike of his truncheon. While water had definite advantages for a creature such as this in its malleability and indestructibility in terms of normal threats, a loose medium such as water was also incredibly easy to lose control over as their magic was disrupted, making them easy to destroy.
The creature stared at Jordan as he approached with glowing orange-yellow eyes from within the liquid and made a weak attempt at evading his attack, but it was too difficult to move with the iron truncheon still inside it. The bludgeon hit with a splash and the wraith burst like a bubble, spilling the water that had made its makeshift vessel over even more of the floor as its spirit lost its tether to Reniam and was forcefully returned to whichever divine realm it had come from.

Yanin looked at the hall intently, but the room was surprisingly bare for such a large open area. The only things he could see present there that had not already proven to be a wraith was the chandelier above and the large painting in the far back.

Jaelnec had been waiting nervously beside his master and Irah, currently waiting for orders or for circumstances to force him to act as he had been instructed, but Freagon seemed content to simply watch the others fighting the wraiths for the time being. Though Jaelnec had gotten better at catching the subtle signs of the knight's moods over the one-and-a-half decade they had spent together, even he had very little idea what was actually going on in the older nightwalker's mind. All he really knew was that Freagon was staring very intensely at the scene before them, sword in hand and ready to act, yet seemingly waiting for... something?
When Madara entered the armory, approached them and addressed them with a brief bit of information, it was only the younger nightwalker that actually turned to look at her. Freagon kept his single eye firmly fixed on the door to the hall and the events playing out over there.
Even so it was still Freagon who responded first: “Thanks,” he simply told her, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth as Jordan crushed the water-wraith in the doorway. Then his eye abruptly widened, his body tensed for a split-second, and out of nowhere he dashed toward the door with a speed that would have been impressive for a person in regular clothing, but was made all the more so by the fact that he was moving that fast in full combat gear.

Freagon sprinted straight past Yanin and Jordan and entered the hall in a heartbeat, his sword held in one hand out to the side as he moved to pass the trapped Lhirin on his right. There was a flash of metal, his sword moving with blinding speed to his left as he drew its eternally razor-sharp edge nimbly and precisely to carve through the rug at about shoulder-level of the captured deigan, cutting all the way through without the sword as much as touching the person inside.

Lhirin would suddenly feel the entire right side of the rug go limp and light flowing into the darkness as a slit opened up over there. The grip of the rug seemed to loosen even more, almost to the point of falling off on its own. It would not be difficult to free himself anymore.

But Freagon kept moving without pause or hesitation, stepping past Lhirin's form and toward the approaching warrior just as this strange iron-clad man, his expression twisting into a grimace of annoyance, raised his silver-sword to strike. He was slow and clumsy; there was another flash of metal as Roct darted from Freagon's left side and upward, clashing with the other's blade hard enough to knock the sword out of his hand, sending it clattering loudly across the floor.
Continuing to move with dexterity and alacrity, Freagon's right hand and sword moved down behind the witch-hunter's shield, only for him to tear it off the man's broken arm and fling it, too, to the floor. The knight's left hand darted for the stranger's right arm and seized his wrist, holding him in place.
He hesitated for a second, staring into the man's face, meeting the witch-hunter's expression of rage with one of intense scrutiny.
Then he loudly and clearly shouted just one single word: “Ghoul!”

After she managed to suppress the brief moment of awe and return to her usual cool aloofness, Irah watched with amusement as Lhirin changed tacts upon realising the true nature of the threat and switched to his more… metallic powers. Good–impressing upon the others precisely how dangerous he was the least he could do, given he’d been alive for longer than generations of most of their families. Though her view was blocked given her position toward the back of the armoury, and the strapping young men frantically changing their weapons, she could make out enough and hear the distinct thuds to know that he’d dealt with the divine inhabiting the Lady’s woodwork. Well, at least there was a carpenter’s shop. She then watched him stride forwards confidently, magic charged and ready to be unleashed, until he appeared to stop for a moment and then… moved upwards. Irah was certain she caught a glimpse of water–she was intimately familiar, after all–and she began to gain an understanding of what precisely might be happening here.

She waited a pregnant second, and then another, and then another before she finally deigned to crane her head forwards and take a look at what had befallen her companion, but as she could still sense the warbling energy around him she knew he’d been able to keep a hold of the focus required for his spells and that he’d be fine. He had many more iron needles than that. Jordan, however, elected to spring into action (conveniently offering her a better view of her currently indisposed companion) and put the hunk of iron he’d recently acquired to good use. Lhirin dropped to the floor–well, it was a rather forceful drop from Irah’s perspective–only to immediately be engulfed by a carpet that was lying in wait. She brought her free hand to her mouth, ostensibly in a gasp of modesty, but in truth she was struggling very hard to stifle a laugh. ”I wonder what the more powerful divine is… Perhaps a Thalk: this smacks of their sense of fun, doesn’t it? These Frentit are being directed, then–and what better to lull people into a Thalk’s craven deceptions than something that muddles the senses and a contingent of useful actors?” she thought to Kinder, but took a moment to breathe in and steady her focus. Kinder hesitated for a moment, considering the question. "It could be," she admitted. "What I felt before could very well have been a thalk filling its vicinity with divine energy. But not just that... if a thalk is giving off an aura as strong as I felt, it is not here in spirit only. It would have to be fully summoned."

Irah paused for a moment as she considered. She had hoped to play the innocent priestess a little longer, but it had already worn tenuously thin with her admission to Sir Yanin: though she could just as easily pass that off as being Lhirin… Well, with him having been picked up by a droplet of water and thrown into a living carpet, he’d rather lost the mien of competence he’d thus far already struggled to maintain with his social blunders. Perhaps they’d not buy it.

She looked around the room for a moment, and noticed that the stranger from afar was yet to engage much, whereas everyone else (except Madara, who she could vaguely hear asking questions outside). Sir Yanin had been quite explicit about using Iron earlier, but she hadn’t exactly joined them as a cohesive unit at the time. Her attire and physique had already registered to Irah as those of a skilled combatant, so perhaps it was merely familiarity she was lacking. Perhaps the dutiful priestess could stay for now, then.

“They have only magical bodies–use your magic or iron. I will keep you safe.” Irah offered, turning towards Nabissistra with a kindly expression on her face, though sometimes unnervingly intense remained about her ruby eyes. Reflected in the crimson of Nabi’s own, should she return the gaze, the intensity of her focus would burn even more brightly. At the sound of Freagon’s movement, however, Irah’s head snapped towards him, eager to see the sword in use. His arm was very skilled indeed, and the grace with which the sartal slashed through the air was something to behold. The way the light danced across its surface, gleaming and glittering as it rendered the wraith that had chosen to embrace Lhirin utterly powerless. She looked up at Jaelnec with a look on her face she suspected he probably knew well: he was an arse, that much was certain, but one did have to give him that he was also quite certainly skilled.

“These are Frentits–weak things. They’re being guided by something greater, but they’re having fun: I think the summoner is likely just as much a victim as we are, now. We should find her as quickly as we can–perhaps we can talk some sense into whatever she’s summoned, if she’s no longer in control.”

Looking at the water above her, and reconsidering the drain she felt from the strange aura that seemed to permeate the house, Irah willed a further 40kg of it out to join the rest of it. She was certain that the Lady Bor would not appreciate almost a bathtub of water being dumped onto her lawn, but they were also saving the day for her (and had every intention of going to save the healer too, though perhaps she didn’t know that yet). As that thought crossed her mind she found Madara returning up the path, followed by an announcement that the summoner had taken something–possibly piaan.

Well. Piaan, of course. Frentits weren’t hard to summon, Irah knew that much–they were famed for being the most plentiful and basic element in a Summoner’s arsenal. They required little energy to conjure and had a will as flimsy as a falling leaf–but to summon potentially up to eleven of them, and then whatever it was that was guiding them… Had the Melenian performed a full summoning? Would she be so foolish?

”Hm. I cannot think of a single greater divine that would create an effect that muddles the senses like this, can you? If a full summoning has been performed… Reina preserve us…”

"Maybe a deova... but no, this did not feel like an Angel of Fidelity." Kinder radiated worry and regret. "Be very careful, Deo'irah. I am ready if you need me."

The only other clues Irah could think to direct herself to was the issue of these angels’ alignment: it could perhaps give them an insight into the summoner, or the situation. They’d need to see more of the rooms: Lhirin could visualise what happened, and she could usually guess why. Still, if he walked into another ambush, she sensed that Sir Yanin would fulfil that role just as well.

“... I fear that a full summoning may have taken place. I suspect perhaps a Thalk if such a summoning has occurred, though that is a guess–if it is, we must hurry: it will grow in power the longer it remains.” she added, addressing everyone in the room with a clear sense of urgency.

---

Though someone had attempted to speak to her, Nabi had not responded. Instead, she had almost completely frozen in place. Whether it was through fear or indecision, it did not truly matter - she was all but seized with paralysis. In her defence, wraiths and other such summoned spirits were not common in Jevog Denûm - and they certainly were not anything that Nabisisstra had trained to fight whilst in service with either the Legions or the Expeditionary Troop; she was used to combating more mundane threats such as ore-lizards, lohks, or perhaps the occasional belagon or two, depending on the location of the expedition. Thus, though Nabi was mentally attempting to prepare herself for what to do, she had frozen, especially when one of their newly-formed party had entered the hall before them and had almost immediately been ambushed - and lifted from their feet - by what looked to Nabi to be a sentient conglomeration of water. What was she to do? The water now held her erstwhile-companion, after all, and though one of the knights had said something about magic being their best weapon, every instinct was screaming at her that throwing a fireball directly at said watery mass was perhaps not the best idea in the world when it came to ensuring the man's survival - especially in one piece. All of this was merely compounded by the strange feeling of dampening that had consumed Nabi (and she assumed the others) when she entered the premises, making accessing magical energy just that little more tiring - or at least time-consuming. The little spark of flame from her palm guttered out almost instantly as the dampening consumed it.

Her lack of knowledge - and lack of preparedness - was understandable from an exterior perspective, for any that knew of the Erashyir and how they wielded magic would know that the conjuration of wraiths - and other summoned beings from beyond - belonged to a school of magic that the Imperial Colleges had deemed 'heavily restricted' due to the potential danger of such magic either spiralling out of control (a concern which was very apt given the situation Nabi currently found herself in) or falling into the hands of those who would do ill with it. As a result, very few summoners - and necromancers - resided within the Empire, and fewer still served in the Legions, as their skills were mostly needed by the Colleges of Magic themselves to teach. This was a known problem, and source of constant grief between the Legions and the Colleges, as both needed mages, and were forever competing over recruits.

Moving back to the matter at hand, however, the situation was not much improved when, with Nabi was still rooted to the spot, another of her companions had charged forward also and brought down an iron truncheon upon said watery mass, which prompted it to drop its victim... almost directly into the waiting embrace of another spirit inhabiting the large rug that was on the floor of the hall. The indecision by now quickly gave way to panic, as Nabi realised that throwing a fireball was now an even worse option, as the only thing that was worse than a rug attempting to smother you, was probably a burning rug attempting to smother you. If the rug didn't kill you, the fire - either from the choking smoke, or from spreading from the rug to you - probably would. Nabi continued to stand almost completely stock still, observing the situation with a rising feeling of uselessness...
Yet all was not lost, for a host of iron spikes proceeded to impale the rug in multiple areas! From what Nabi could see, the rug - or rather, whatever was inhabiting it - subsequently loosened its grip on the unfortunate soul still stuck in its embrace, which likely would give them a chance to escape, and moreover, the mass of water had been all but dispelled when another iron club had smashed through it - probably disrupting whatever energies the wraith still possessed. The panic began to fade, and the words of the female deigan next to her snapped Nabi out of her fug of indecision.

“They have only magical bodies – use your magic or iron. I will keep you safe.”

Words of reassurance. Of someone who knew what they were up against, and who was convinced they'd triumph. The hold was broken.

Nabi nodded, seemingly recovering her senses and her ability to react. One of the knights ahead shouted something about a 'ghoul' in front of them, but from where Nabi stood, the situation seemed well in hand on that front, whilst the rug was being handled. Instead, she changed her attention to the other immediate threat - the strange, almost comical motion of the table and candleholder which were still animated. Nabi hesitated for a brief moment, before advancing into the hall, passing her sabre into her left hand, whilst simultaneously tracing runes in the air with her right - which considering the dampening, was more difficult than she had initially thought. Yet the task was clear, and her focus was razor-sharp - no impediment would stop her this time. She whispered "I hope Lady Bor forgives me the damage to her property..." under her breath, followed by the words of the spell, and then, with a shouted cry of "Iel!", Nabi thrust her hand forward, from the palm of which poured a torrent of magical flames that crashed into - and engulfed - the form of the mobile table and candleholder. Though it would likely result in severe damage to Lady Bor's furniture, Nabi really didn't see much alternative.

To make omelettes, sometimes you had to break a few eggs. Hopefully Lady Bor would at least understand that when a spirit was busy possessing your table and chairs, you might have no other choice but to destroy the physical form.

Hopefully.