Freagon cocked his head curiously when Yanin, while looking at the older knight, indicated the ghoul Lhirin was fighting as if to direct him to intervene and defeat the creature himself. Aside from this small somatic cue, however, Freagon did not react to the human knight's unspoken instruction in the slightest; he remained exactly where he was, one foot on the presumably defeated ghoul he was standing on, his sword lowered passively as he simply watched.
His lack of obvious action did not mean that he did not appreciate Yanin's intent, though, nor the insight that intent suggested. Freagon agreed on the other knight's assessment: it would make far more practical sense for him to simply run up there and cut down the ghoul with Roct rather than standing by passively and let the mages expend their limited stores of magical energy to take four times longer to destroy the thing. Though he was no mage himself, he still had enough experience with magic to realize that Lhirin, Irah and Nabi had all spent a considerable amount of magical energy already; energy that might have been useful for handling the greater threat that supposedly still loomed ahead of them.
But unlike Yanin, Freagon was not particularly invested in defeating their enemies as quickly, safely and efficiently as possible. He had not come to Borstown for better equipment, in the hopes of riches or even out of curiosity; he had come here, fully expecting to be turned away by Baroness Bor, in the hopes of meeting other adventurers. He wanted – no, he needed to gather a competent party to travel with... and here they were. Not a party yet, but a collection of adventurers with potential for certain. Had his intent been simply to aid the penin outside clear the manor, the safest, fastest and most efficient method would likely have been for him to simply rush in and wipe out all opposition on his own, at most with Yanin along as support; everyone else just slowed him down. He had waited for them on purpose, had stood back and remained mostly passive and defensive for most of the fight not because it was the best way to win, but to create opportunities for him to observe and evaluate these people. To witness their skills, powers, strengths and weaknesses.
There was potential. How useful they might be in practice would be another matter entirely.

As Sir Yanin vanquished the final, literally disarmed ghoul with extreme prejudice, things finally seemed to slow down in the hall again; words were shared, weapons cleaned, burning blankets moved aside as swift preparations seemed to be undertaken for dealing with the assumed final threat. Freagon did not bother cleaning his weapon just yet; blood – and practically anything else – would not degrade the sartal blade, and the fighting was not over yet. He would spare a few seconds to wipe the blood off before sheathing the sword, if for no other reason then simply to avoid leaving gunk that would start to smell in the scabbard. For now he kept the sword in hand and turned his attention back to the hall.
“Deo'irah, was it?” he called, and though his voice remained eternally hoarse he did not sound winded in the least. His tone was flat and matter-of-factly, as neutral as his posture. “Can you confirm that there's only one divine left? It'd be best to avoid more... surprises.” He gestured at the middle of the floor where the sundered carpet that had captured Lhirin earlier now lay inert and soaked in water.

Over in the armory, Kinder addressed Irah to confirm what the deigan might learn with her own magical senses: “I do not sense any more. It seems that no more are being summoned, at least for now. The more powerful one should be the last divine nearby... except me, of course.”
Beside her and Madara, Jaelnec finally recovered enough to stand up straight again, though he was far from back to full capacity just yet. His cheeks were wet with tears and he kept blinking rapidly as the world remained a blur to him, with a bright red outline of Lhirin's lightning still burned into his retinas. It would probably take a while for his vision to recover completely – assuming the light had not been severe enough to do permanent damage – but at least the pain had receded to the point of being manageable, and he was no longer completely blind.
Still, this had not been his proudest moment. Any hope he had had to possibly show off his skills and maybe impress Irah, Nabi or Madara had been squashed the instant a bolt of lightning – even a small one as was the case here – had manifested within his field of vision. Instead he now appeared weak and amateurish on top of being actually mostly defenseless. The pain, though severe, was nowhere near as crippling as the shame and disappointment.

Irah looked over the remaining combatants finishing up, her left eyebrow delicately arched as she paid the goings-on rapt attention. It was clear that the elder Nightwalker with his Sartal sword put all of them to shame, but he’d spent much of his time in precisely the same mode as her: appraising. Surveying. Learning the proverbial lay of the land. She knew full well when she was being tested: the weight of his expectation spoke volumes that his silence didn’t. She closed her eyes in response to his question, raising a hand towards the rest as she focused.

“There is one hostile divine left, yes. I sense from it bloodthirst, hate, rage–not like these Frentits, who were merely ‘having fun’.” she spoke before turning to Jaelnec and offering him a gentle if slightly pitying smile–not that he’d have the vision to tell. “Let me help. Blessed Reina, may your mercy flow forth from your servant.” she spoke, raising her hand to gently caress Jaelnec’s cheek before coming up towards his eyes (though she had to stand on the tips of her toes to do so). Kinder asked: "That is quite a scar on his cheek... should I fix that, too?" as Irah asked for her assistance, and she pondered for a brief moment before answering.

“No, thank you. If he wishes for it to be healed, he will ask. I would not want to impose on his freedom of choice.” she responded warmly, her thanks sincere but her conviction overpowering her desire to help.

“I am sorry, Jaelnec. Lhirinthyl did not think before invoking his magic; I will ask him to be more… thoughtful. Are you alright now?” she asked, taking her hand back as she did so and turning away from him in an uncharacteristically bashful manner. Her tone was markedly more pointed as she mentioned Lhirin, but she knew full well that he’d not take notice of it. She turned then to Sir Yanin, moving to follow his lead (though hanging back and waiting outside the area of magical disruption) while the others assembled. She’d found herself very impressed with him: for one so young he understood clearly the importance of taking action, and taking efficient action. He was a very skilled combatant, too, but the edge of his sword would cut both ways. She made a mental note to be careful around him, though she suspected that what would frustrate him about her forbidden talents was not their nature, but their having been kept from him. She wondered if he was enlightened enough to understand that it was the way the tool was wielded, rather than the tool itself, that was important. She felt similarly about Freagon: she’d chosen her words very carefully, but in the absence of facial expressions to read about him she was, for once, almost entirely unsure about his thoughts and feelings. The others were not learned enough to understand the significance of the information that she’d provided and what it might reveal about her to the canny (except Lhirin, who already knew), but she suspected that Freagon might be. She knew from experience that those who were content to wait and observe typically did so from a position of advanced knowledge: what his was was the question on her mind.

Still half-blind and aching, Jaelnec's expression was only a bit tense until a frown came over it at Irah's description of the last remaining divine in Bor Manor. She had guessed it might be a thalk earlier, and now she said that she sensed bloodthirst, hate and rage from it, which gave more than a little food for thought. Though he had never fought angels himself, he had witnessed Freagon fight them at several different occasions, so he had first-hand experience with thalks and frentits alike.
It made sense that the frentits would just be “having fun,” as Irah put it; that was the mindset most free-willed divines had when they were unleashed in Reniam, eager as they were to seize the opportunity for new experiences. The violence, destruction and trauma they tended to cause mundanes was often the result of indifference rather than malevolence, since they – as immortals that never knew true death and would heal from any injury – did not always comprehend how much more serious such things were for mortals. Strong negative emotions as the ones she described now were unusual in all but the most hostile and dangerous divines, or those who had been somehow wronged and motivated to feel that way.
So what could have instilled such dark emotions in this thalk? The most likely explanation was that the summoner had enslaved it, of course, but if she was strong enough to control something as wily as a thalk, why had she just let the frentits loose like this? It did not feel like it added up.
Another realization Jaelnec had at Irah's mention of the wraiths and ghouls being possessed by frentits was that it was fortunate that they had been so intent on playing around in their new bodies. Frentits were naturally rather bestial angels that primarily fought with tooth and claw, so it was only natural for them to be hopelessly inept with tools like weapons. There was actually a fair chance that the ghouls would have been more dangerous if they had not been trying to fight as humans.

The other-other thing that made Jaelnec frown at Irah's words was the fact that she could not only sense their presence and relative strength, not only decipher their state of mind, but could apparently do so from far away and without even line of sight. He had never encountered someone with such keen magical senses before, except maybe some of the best Sniffers. Jaelnec only had the faintest hint of magical sensitivity himself and no experience with any kind of magic, but he had been around enough mages – both of the commonly acceptable variety that lived normal lives across Rodoria and practitioners of forbidden arts – to know that there was virtually no chance that Irah was all that she seemed. His best guess would be that she was a necromancer, since it was common knowledge that they had sharper magical senses than others, but even for a necromancer...
Not that he was going to act on his suspicions, of course. Not only did the idea of potentially having to treat the cute deigan as an enemy fill his heart with regret and disgust, but he also knew that if he had deduced that something odd was going on with her, then Freagon would absolutely have noticed as well. Jaelnec would happily ignore his own evaluation and trust his master's judgment instead. Since Freagon did not react to her statement beyond turning away from her and looking off toward the western landing where their final opponent supposedly awaited them.
Jaelnec had no idea just what Freagon might be thinking on the matter, or if he had any opinion on it at all. The old knight had never cared too much about the law, nor did he often adhere to the common definitions of “right” and “wrong” or “monster”, for that matter. They had fought (by which he meant that Freagon had fought and Jaelnec spectated) alongside necromancers, summoners and witches as often as they had fought against them depending on the situation, though admittedly most practitioners of the forbidden arts Jaelnec had met had been deo'iel. It was probably unlikely for Freagon to treat Irah with hostility solely based on using outlawed magic, so as long as nobody else made a fuss about it, chances were – happily so – that they might work with the pretty sorceress for a little while.

Then, much to Jaelnec's surprise, Irah addressed him personally and, gently caressing his face from his cheek to his eyes, spoke a prayer to Reina as a soft white, magical glow emerged where their skin touched.
It was entirely too much for Jaelnec's mind to keep up with.
One part of his brain went: Huh, she's a Favored One, too? So she's an elementalist, probably a necromancer and a Favored One. Quite the multi-talent.
Another part of him wondered: This feels... odd? None of the other times I've been healed by a Favored One of Reina felt like this. This feels warmer, but also more... itchy, almost? Like it almost hurts?
A more critical thought wondered: She'd waste her limited healing magic on my eyes when I would probably recover on my own in a little while, even though I've just been standing over here doing nothing?
And a final, more honest voice noted: Her fingertips are rough, but her palms are so soft... and she smells like goldberries.
But regardless of the musings that raced through the young page's mind, the healing light wiped away the red outlines and clarified his vision so that he was treated to a view with fully functional eyes of Irah as she pulled her hand away. He saw her standing on tiptoes to reach his face, saw her looking straight into his face, saw her turning away bashfully as she apologized for the lightning and asked if he was all right now.

Jaelnec straightened his back, puffed his chest out and tried as hard as he could to not start blushing profusely and giggling happily. He was mostly successful, but not entirely; there was a bit of a blush on his neck and cheeks, and he could not suppress his blissful smile entirely.
“I am fine now,” he told her, unintentionally making his voice sound a bit deeper than normal. “Thank you, miss, but it's my own fault. I could tell he was casting a spell, I should've looked away.”
Even just acknowledging his mistake to himself made Jaelnec deflate a little again as his eyes – imperceptibly due to their uniform blackness – darted to Freagon across the hall. He was certain that he was going to be reprimanded for that mistake later.

---

Beyond the armory, in the hall where the fighting had now come to an end, Lhirin and Nabi might notice that the aura that had been disrupting their magic and magical senses seemed to dissipate.

---

The ghoul's momentum had carried it onto the tip of her blade, but to her surprise it was somewhat more forceful than she had anticipated, and the ghoul had come somewhat closer than Nabi had initially planned, in spite of her two weapons that both remained firmly jammed in the corpse-man's head and torso, respectively. The ghoul's frantic flailing and gnashing of teeth was all that occupied her mind for a brief moment or two, before an armoured gauntlet - belonging to the older of the humans - reached over the corpse-man's shoulder, took hold of the ghoul's torso itself and wrenched the corpse-man away from her, also giving Nabi the chance to, with a growl of effort, rip her dagger and sabre free from where they were both lodged in the corpse, before stumbling backwards slightly - bumping into something as she did so. The knight threw the ghoul to the ground, before caving in its skull with a single crushing blow from his own truncheon, followed by another blow to the ribcage. Blood, fragments of bone and pulped brain matter and flesh exploded from the corpse and splattered across the ground. Nabi cursed in Erashyiric under her breath, wishing her sabre was a little less dependent upon finesse and more suited for rough, physical encounters, but no doubt it would serve against anything that wasn't effectively a corpse being puppeted by something from beyond.

Nabi had only just realised the younger man - Jordan, as he introduced himself - had put out an arm behind her to catch her - and it was that she had stumbled back into. She fought back the urge to make a quip about falling for a younger man, and instead nodded to him and mouthed Thank you, in gratitude. The older knight spoke up as he dealt the finishing blow. "They fight until disrupted or fully disassembled. Taking an arm off is just a scratch."

Nabi, finally taking the time to breathe a heavy sigh of relief as the adrenaline began to fade, steadied herself back on her feet. The older one wasn't to know that total dismemberment was mostly what she'd planned to do, but it couldn't hurt to say so. "That was the intention, sir, but it came at me a little fast. Appreciate the assistance... apparently a foot of steel isn't quite the leverage I thought it was." She looked down at herself, checking for any sign of injury that she hadn't noticed thanks to the adrenaline, before realising that in the meantime, the knight had thanked her - for dealing with the blanket-thing, she assumed. "Heh. Even now? One blanket-thing for one corpse-man?" Nabi wiped the blood and remains of the corpse-man's eye from her dagger and sheathed it behind her, but kept her sabre at the ready in case of any more trouble. The knight spoke up again, "Silver ignores magic. That's why they use those."

He was evidently referring to the silvered swords the now decidedly-ex witch hunters had been carrying. Meanwhile, the younger lad was offering her a truncheon, probably after witnessing the somewhat messy encounter earlier. Nabi shook her head. "No, but thank you. I'd prefer one of those swords, if I have to take something - don't like using heavy cudgels as weapons, even if they are apparently useful against magical creatures." She glanced over to the other set of stairs, where the third sword lay, before wiping her sabre clean on some smouldering cloth nearby and jogging over to pick the third sword up. Immediately, Nabi prepared herself to change her swordplay - the sword was longer, heavier and definitely clumsier than she was used to, but it would suffice.

If necessary, she could always use two hands...

---

Avoiding the prick of the spear, Lhirin found himself stymied by the ghoul's ranged armament. Letting out a sharp breath, Lhirin's wide-eyed stare bored into the divine-possessed corpse, but before he need act further, a trail of water snaked through the air and did the rest of the work for him. As the water closed the circuit and the ghoul reacted, Lhirin cut off the flow of energy even as the water collapsed to the ground and his enemy convulsed and flung itself partially backward.

Taking a deep breath, Lhirin focused his senses--noticing the disappearance of the disruption to his energies as he did so, though he knew there was unlikely any correlation. He felt...heavy and drained. Not good things considering the greater encounter was likely ahead of them--if Irah's words were anything to go by (which they often were).

Lowering his runeblade, Lhirin turned his attention to the Knight of the Will who stood down the staircase, raising a single eyebrow. The man could have easily interjected or even taken out the ghoul in his stead. Why had he held back. In fact, given his speed and the effectiveness of his weapon against the divines, why had he not done more?

Lhirin stared, his gaze lingering too long, with far more intensity than was comfortable or polite. "Inefficient," he said matter-of-factly, his eyes still locked upon the knight. As the others gathered their wits and spoke--mostly to one another rather than at him--Lhirin considered his stores of energy.

His lips twitched downwards slightly, then returned to a more neutral expression. Idly he considered the piaan he had on his person but disregarded it after a moment's consideration. Still, Irah's words about what was allegedly the final divine worried him, if only slightly.

With his senses no longer disrupted Lhirin could tell that all parties of magical note had perhaps expended more than they ought to during this first engagement--himself included. Perhaps he was the truly inefficient one. With Irah's assistance and a measure more seriousness, he could have disabled all--if not the vast majority--of the threats almost entirely without input from the others...and using a fraction of the energy he'd expended in reality.

He shook his head slightly And glanced between the other members of their ragtag group, noting that each of the three silver swords had already been accounted for. Dismissing the idea of asking for one, Lhirin instead glanced down to his own runeblade even as he lifted its sheath to eye level. Scanning briefly he reviewed the various runes inscribed on each of their surfaces. When he was satisfied, Lhirin lowered both implements and turned his attention to the top of the stairs. Thoughts flitted through his mind As he considered, and then discarded the idea of imbibing any of his limited stock of piaan. After all, those were only for emergencies, and this did not yet qualify.

With that decided, Lhirin spoke, his voice projected mostly due to his clear tone and the acoustics of the room. "Freagon," he said, addressing the knight without so much as a glance his way, only then to pause for an awkward moment after which he half turned to regard the man with one silver iris. "Accompany me?" he asked, though his expression was difficult to read, yet clearly bereft of any embarrassment.

Climbing the staircase while looking around and taking in the layout of the second floor of the hall, Yanin got a better perspective past the lip of the landing that encircled the entire space. The first things he would get a better look at as he climbed would be the windows, two on the northern wall and one on the southern one, which would be right above the armory. All the windows were more-or-less the exact same type as he had seen when viewing the manor from outside: square cross-windows about two by two meters in size, allowing bountiful daylight to flow into the space from outside. All the windows seemed mostly intact, though he would notice that the northwestern window – the one directly adjacent to the top of the stair he was currently on – had a thin, wide, curved spray of red painted across its lower half.
Other than the windows, the only openings to the landing were two doorways; one to the west and one to the east. The eastern door was closed, preventing him from seeing what lay past it, but the western door was wide open, swung into the hall and toward Yanin, and offered a partial view of a second-floor hallway past it. From his vantage point Yanin would be able to see another two doors on the south side of the hallway, both of which were closed.
Ascending further to get a full view of the area, Yanin would not notice any other openings nor any significant details about them than he did before. The floor of the landing, however, seemed to have its own story to tell. Just past the top of the stair he was on he would see two small glass vials laying about three meters apart, one of which appeared to have been crushed but neither of which had spilled any liquid, suggesting that they would have been discarded once empty. He would also notice a broken wooden chair to the right of the top of the stair and another several red splatters going this way and that, though none of them resembled the wide arc across the window.
In front of the sprayed window – the stain on which he would be familiar with, as it seemed the type that would often occur when wounding someone deeply with a wide sword-slash – was quite a bit of blood that seemed to have dripped this way and that, along with several sizable chunks of what appeared to be thick red hair. The blood-drips then left a trail, accompanied by what appeared to be bloody paw-prints of a large feline, heading into the west wing of the manor, disappearing into the first door on the left.

If he listened carefully, as he was wont to do, he would also be able to just faintly pick up the sound of a woman sobbing again from there. The sound seemed to come from the western wing as well.

“Freagon.”
The Knight of the Will turned expectantly to face Lhirin as he spoke his name, to find him not even looking in his direction. Though he did not react to it, he also noticed the lack of an honorific in the address and made a mental note to pay attention as to how the deigan addressed Yanin. Freagon did not particularly care whether people called him “sir” or not or if they looked at him when speaking to him, but those were both useful indicators to gauge people's disposition from, particularly when there were other knights around.
If Lhirin also addressed Yanin without honorific it meant that he just did not fuss about formalities like that... at least with people as relatively low in the noble hierarchy as knights. He did recall him being quite formal and polite – grandiose, almost – when addressing the penin outside they had all assumed was the baroness, but she was also the local Lady and technically their employer, since she had offered a reward. If he did address Yanin with honorific, on the other hand, it meant that the omission for one in addressing Freagon had been a deliberate slight against him... in which case the nightwalker figured that he should probably try to mend whatever he had done to annoy the mage.

Only a moment later did Lhirin half-turn and look in Freagon's direction, and spoke the words: “Accompany me?”
Behind the visor of his helmet Freagon frowned confusedly as well as his scarred features allowed him. The inflection on the words suggested that the words were meant as a request rather than an order, which was good; Freagon did not deem the current situation urgent enough to justify others giving him orders. But the ascended deigan also did not appear to be actually going anywhere, which suggested that he was only going to start moving once Freagon was near him and had agreed to accompany him.
Freagon was not sure why he needed to accompany Lhirin specifically, but he also was not in the mood to argue. He finally stepped off the corpse of the ghoul he had slain and started ascending the eastern stairs toward where Lhirin awaited him.
“Boy,” he called and raised his left hand and make a vague gesture over his shoulder without looking.
Out in the armory Jaelnec jolted upright and his eyes went wide at the sound of his master's voice, only for him to hurriedly move to follow Freagon.

The human knight paused, if ever so briefly, when the foreign woman admitted to a slight misjudgement on her part, thanking him for assistance, and reckoning they'd be even now. It was only fair; he'd asked her to spend her limited reserves first, in a very literal sense.
"So it would appear," he acknowledged her words, though his attention on either her or anyone else making preparations in the rooms felt somehow cursory, even with his metal armor being already predisposed to not having any particular expression.
Down in the hall, Freagon was inquiring Deo'Irah if she'd noticed any other divines, which was entirely reasonable, and perhaps also somewhat notably, Lhirinthyl stated one single word: "Inefficient." Perhaps at himself, perhaps at Freagon - it was the other declared knight the deigan mage was staring at. He could tell that much. It would appear that the human knight and Lhirinthyl were in agreement, after all.
He himself meticulously ascended the stairs with both weapons held in high guard. Nearly silent, further obfuscated by the bustle of people running back and forth to retrieve whichever weapons they saw fit or inspecting and cleaning their own, and exchanging last words.

Three windows, two doors, one closed, one open, signs of battle. He observed everything, watching for motion, listening to sound. Even smells, if there were any of note - though, for the time being, that of smoke was rather overpowering, covering up the milder undertones of blood, stone, lightning and metal. Almost, but not quite strong enough to unpleasantly sting eyes.
The attention he spared for the open door was keener, every step higher revearing more of the corridor leading away from it as it hung there, unassumingly swung open into the hall and away from him. It would have been conceivable to someone to stand hiding behind it, yet nothing sprung forth. Just deceptive stillness, and more of the building's west wing. One more door, in the southern wall, and another after it. Both closed. Nothing unexpected in the rest of the room.
No motion. But a faint sound - the same sobbing he had heard before, from approximately the same location. There was no doubt that whoever was there, or adjacent, had heard the commotion. Not that the wraiths and ghouls were particularly subtle - the fighting would have resonated through the chambers, loud and clear - but also their words.
Unavoidable, perhaps, at least with this level of coordination. For all their presumed having fun, the frentits had, in contrast, seemingly acted on a definite cue at least once. They knew. It knew. He knew they knew. And potentially all the way down from there.
On one hand, it could have been better to shut up entirely and keep adversaries guessing. On the other, the absence of something could mean as much or more than the presence of something. Beware of forests where birds don't sing. Silence was, sometimes, blatant.

Chair. More blood. Fur, if not from someone's garments - none of the ghouls had been wearing anything matching - then from the Melenian. Vials? Blood tracked to first door. A thin line of light beneath the open door, no one standing behind it. For the time being, Yanin stopped advancing entirely.
Lhirinthyl was asking Freagon to accompany him - it was, at the very least, somewhat logical. Preparing magical spells could take time, time during which they were comparatively defenseless. Did it meant he had judged himself to have enough energy left to throw around lighting one more time? Something more than that?
"Do you have something in mind, Lhirinthyl?" Lhirinthyl might have incidentally noticed - due to his unusual proficiency in languages and seeming ability to not have a distinct accent - that Yanin was pronouncing his name akin to someone speaking a bit stiff Fermian with a vague Rodorian accent.
Even as he spoke, he pointed at Deo'Irah with his hand - a bit awkwardly, since his thumb and index finger were bound up with the truncheon, leaving only three armored fingers free to refer to anything -, then turned his palm toward the ground, motioned 'low' twice, then turned his hand over once more to beckon her closer.
"We can presume the summoner, if alive, if quite heavily injured," another trick was always an option, "There are also two small vials on the floor. Might confirm what Madara was saying had been inferred earlier."

If Irah had moved up in the interim - potentially to a cople steps higher to make leaning closer easier -, he would ask, in a very low voice, "You can hear from here. Are you able to tell if there is a mundane in there, and if so, are they in the same room?"

Irah acquiesced silently as Sir Yanin motioned, following along with the obvious (if slightly impaired) instructions his hand signals provided and crouching down before approaching. She had to crouch much less than he did, being significantly shorter, but still enough to have to adjust her posture to remain comfortable. She’d watched his assessment of the situation keenly, following along with it mentally and observing the processes he undertook with much interest. His style of tactical leadership was similar to Lhirin’s, perfunctory and without grace–but efficient and effective. Though she was not privy to his own conclusions, she reached much the same answers as he did. She made a quick calculation in her mind, observing the number of vials with keen interest. Though she’d never taken piaan herself, worried about its influence on her spiritual wellbeing (as well as the massive host of side effects she’d observed in others and in Lhirin), she was very familiar with its dosages and how much the body could handle before spiritual damage began to occur. She’d used her sharp magical senses to observe Lhirin’s spiritual composition when he’d taken it in the past, and she knew how it could stretch and tear at the soul’s very cohesion: the amount in these vials seemed to be a standard dose, 10ml, and there were two empty vials. No trace of their contents remained, but given the information Madara had provided earlier it was clear: the Melenian had overdosed, then.

Irah turned back to Madara, her expression clearly wanting to ask a question, but then looked at Lhirin instead. She then proceeded to mouth her query to him: “Melenians, female. Average body weight?”

Based on his reply, Irah would come to the conclusion that a physical overdose had certainly occurred: her mind would be close to broken, no doubt–if not outright manic, dulled by euphoria… or unspooling entirely, if she were even a little underweight or did not have the mental fortitude required. If she were possessed by a hostile divine, it would be exceptionally easy to force her body into the motions necessary to sacrifice another to perform a full summoning. She was an experienced summoner already, after all–evidently. Her brow furrowed at the thought, but she was quickly brought back to reality by Sir Yanin’s query.

Keeping her voice low she replied: “This amount of piaan… her mind is likely gone, especially if possessed. Working theory is that she was possessed and forced to perform a full summoning with one of the deceased unaccounted for.”

She then extended her own senses outward and asked Kinder to do the same now they were a little closer to the location–she also shared her theory with the divine, wondering if that tidbit of insight might allow Kinder a greater clarity into her own observations that she could share. She would focus on the Melenian’s soul, if she could detect it, eager to determine the damage the piaan had done and to ascertain precisely how much of her remained if her theory was correct. Otherwise, she’d focus on physically locating the summoner (and any other extant people, should they be present) and working from there.

Extending her senses toward the upper west wing of the manor, Irah would be able to feel for herself much more clearly than before what Kinder had reported since they got here. In the first room on the left down that hallway she would feel a large, dense quantity of divine energy that seemed to fill an area back there. Unlike sensing a normal soul, there were no discernible currents, vibrations or other movements in this energy, either because it was somehow entirely dormant or because the entity it belonged to was trying to mask its presence.
Magically locating anything inside that mass of divinity would be nigh-impossible unless she extended her senses inside it and sifted through the area like one might physically sift sand through one's fingers. Doing so would expose her naked soul to dense divine energy, however, and would cause her to accumulate divine taint extremely fast. As it was there was no way for Irah to determine if there were any mundanes, let alone who they were or their specific mental states, in the room with the divine without seriously compromising her own health.

“I am sorry, Deo'irah, but I cannot sense anything but the divine,” Kinder reported sadly. “They may be in there hidden by its presence, but I have greater difficulty sensing living mundanes than spirits. Maybe I could sense them fully summoned, but currently I cannot tell.”

---

A she watched Freagon make his decision, the deigan caught movement from Irah's location and his gaze shifted even as the Knight of the Will gave him his unspoken answer. Reading his companion's lips, Lhirin's mind whirred for an instant before he held up a hand, displaying 5 fingers, then two, in succession, to indicate 52 kgs (114.64 lbs). That done, Lhirin turned his gaze from Irah, caught Freagon's eye for a moment as he neared him, and then pushed forth up the stairway.

As he reached the upper landing, Lhirin would take several steps onto it, providing room for any who came just behind or beside him--such as Freagon or his apprentice, Jaelnec. Widening his eyes, Lhirin peered over the details on the second floor of the hall. He looked over the details of everythin in the room, the windows they'd seen from outside, the chandelier, the spatters of blood and those of his new compatriots who had also ascended--though by the other stairway. At once he focused, reaching his arcane sense outwards and coming upon a dense disturbance of the faint ambient energy of the area. This clearly demarcated where the ambient energy ended and divine energy--and its corruptive touch--began. He withdrew his senses at that point, not willing to risk any direct contact with it. He'd leave that to Irah and her divine.

Moving once more, he headed towards the path into the western area of the manor even as the faint sound of a crying woman reached him. Though her words were quieter than usual, Lhirin caught much of what Irah said in reply to Yanin, if only because he read her lips.

"I don't like this," muttered the mage as he joined the rest of the group before pushing past them alongside Freagon. He paused before he passed any threshold however, ensuring that he would not enter the area suffused with divine energy just yet.

Once there, he lifted a finger to his mouth and lightly chewed at his bent knuckle. It did not feel particularly wise to walk directly into such dense energy without some greater form of protection. Protection that he could not currently afford given the level of his magical reserves. Half turning so he could regard Irah and the others once more, Lhirin gave her a pointed look as he made a series of subtle gestures with one of his hands. The hand remained at his side, making the act rather inconspicuous.

It communicated the status of his reserves and posed a question, should he imbibe given the potential danger they were walking into?

That query posed, Lhirin‘s gaze finally turned to Yanin as he grasped at the memory of the knight’s words. Though he was tactlessly late to replying to the man, Lhirin did so nonetheless, appearing not to even notice that he’d kept the man waiting for a response longer than was proper.

“No,” the deigan began as he regarded the knight, taking in his various arms and armor. “Impossible to precisely prepare when we cannot know what we are to face,” he clarified. Drumming his fingers along the hilt of his runeblade, Lhirin considered the assets at their disposal. His eyes briefly darted to Irah and then back between the other members of their makeshift party. Based on the telltale signs he was picking up on, she was almost worse off than he was in terms of energy. Someone who didn’t know her would not have been able to tell the difference, as she held herself well, but he had traveled with her for quite some time and had learned to tell the difference.

Her spirit was tired. He understood the feeling as he shifted in place, likely appearing listless and almost fidgety to anyone else. The reality was that he was moving subtly in order to somewhat alleviate the terrible feeling of heaviness that came along with magical exhaustion. Bringing a hand up, Lhirin massaged the bridge of his nose before pushing his hand back through his feathers lightly.

“Given my and Irah’s states, I believe having our more physically oriented fighters lead is likely wise. Any information we can offer you can be given just as well from the back as if we were leading.” It wasn’t much, but it was at least something he could offer to the man’s question other than simply shutting it down.

Irah nodded at Lhirin’s words, opting to add in some salient details of her own: “The room is saturated with divine energy–I cannot extend my senses into it without accumulating a dangerous amount of taint. Likewise, as soon as we enter, we will be bombarded with divine energy. Those of you without any native resistance to the taint…” she began, before looking over the assembled group and attempting to get a read on their expressions as she mentioned the taint. Any of them who were caught off guard by it, any who weren’t–all of the information on their faces would be valuable… well, if she could read it. She would simply have to assume Sir Freagon was able, and she’d already healed Jaelnec–enough to have a vague understanding of his resistance to the taint.

“... will need to be swift. Merely being in the aura that lays beyond will erode your very being–to say nothing of the magic that might be brought to bear against you. The Angel within is not like the others, and if it has been fully summoned as I expect then we face not only a significantly more formidable opponent, but one who may well listen to reason… or perhaps someone yet left to save. Whatever choice we make, it must be decisive. We cannot dally once events begin to unfold and we learn the truth. If it is a Thalk, we can remove it from the area to render its current aura inert, and it will have to build up another–this will give you more time.” she spoke, directing most of her tactical advice to Sir Yanin–it seemed he was the most suited to using it, and had already taken command enough of the situation with his air of authority to be the unspoken leader.

She turned her gaze directly towards Freagon again, pulled inexorably by that stirring of a sensation within her, still fresh in her mind. It had unlocked memories from many years ago, swimming in her mind’s eye almost as clearly as when the events had actually transpired. It had taken a considerable toll on her focus to resist its pull, but time was against them–it could wait. She would not let him leave without questioning him, that much was certain in her mind. Snapping back to reality she looked over at Lhirin, motioning towards him. The combination of the nausea from the accumulated taint and the magical exhaustion was a particularly egregious weight, the interactions between the energies clear to her more refined senses–her spirit was formidable, but this assault on it could not be progressed further without terrible consequence. She had never let the taste of piaan pass her lips before, and she did not intend to now… something that seemed more relevant than ever with the situation unfolding in front of them. Lhirin would if necessary, and she could at least observe the fluctuations of his soul and commit them to memory, to further her research of the elusive substance. She shot Lhirin a knowing look and shook her head slightly almost as an afterthought, indicating that he should hold off for now--it would be wise to use such tools only when they were necessary, and they had too little information to decide that at the moment. He, too, would simply have to be swift.

Irah waited by Sir Yanin, though she shot a telling look to Lhirin asking for his presence by her side. Just as he could sense the fatigue within her, she could feel his too–his steps were subtly laboured, leadened by the diminishing of his magical energy. His soul flickered and fluttered as if a sputtering flame, but she would feel safer with him nearby nevertheless–his skill with his sword was certainly not to be understated, and he was prepared for an emergency. He always was–it was why she felt so safe around him. She also turned to look over her shoulder at Jaelnec, though it was brief--just enough to indicate that he may wish to move and join her... but her gaze lingered on Freagon again for the briefest of seconds until she snapped her head forward and committed her focus to the task ahead.

Just as she had stumbled back from her brief altercation with the ghoul, the dark-skinned - not very-dark-brown-skinned, like some southern humans rarely seen in these lands, actually black-skinned, with the crimson eyes of true deigan - foreigner regained her footing, silently thanking him before briefly focusing on his master and his assessment on the course of the fight and responding in a manner that seemed ... almost jestful in contrast to Sir Yanin's fairly laconic matter-of-factness?
Well, they probably could use some levity, all things considered. The two wraiths he had finished off were more stolen property than living beings, and didn't really die as much as were sent back to where they had come from. But the ghouls' hosts, now hopelessly disfigured beyond all recognition with the banishment of the bodies' most recent inhabitants? Those had actually been living people with aspirations and families and friends and, well, everything not an hour ago. Best not to think about it for the time being. He didn't think he could ever get accustomed to the killing and death of actual people. Perhaps for the better.
So Jordan showed it in the back of his mind for now, let out a forced breath through his teeth, and pressed on.

The foreigner shook her head when he offered her the extra truncheon. "No, but thank you. I'd prefer one of those swords, if I have to take something - don't like using heavy cudgels as weapons, even if they are apparently useful against magical creatures."
"Right," he muttered, briefly pausing to think. Too useful to be left behind entirely, perhaps, just in case they encountered more wraiths or needed to block incoming magical attacks ... but the matter of the fact remained that he had one hand too few to wield three weapons at once effectively, and no real place to store extra weapons on his person aside of his own.
Sir Yanin and Sir Freagon didn't seem to have a need for one - his master because he had similarly enough, enough weapons to wield one in each gauntlet twice over, the nightwalker because ... well, mostly because he didn't seem like the sort to use whatever was available when he already had a nigh-indestructible blade of his own. In small part because he didn't seem like the approachable sort in general. Lhirinthyl and Deo'Irah, probably also not. Madara or the younger nightwalker, now that they were pouring into the main hall? The latter, he guessed. Hadn't Sir Freagon told him to pick one up, anyway, before Sir Yanin decided it was better used to make the water-wraith relinquish its would-be prey? Was that really some two minutes ago?
"Hey, er, Jaelnec?" he briefly interrupted the other as he was heading to follow the elder of his kind. "Here, take this."
Jordan briefly bowed down to forcefully slide the spare truncheon across the floor. Seemed like a better idea than trying to pass kilogram-and-some iron object over air. The latter might result in a missing tooth or two.

This was more or less all the preparation he could do aside of taking deep breaths and steeling his nerves, so quietly, he took the stairs to where Sir Yanin and Deo'Irah already stood.



Even now, in the enduring moments of suspense and preparation, the deigan healer insisted only one divine remained. And by count?
Three witch-hunters, the Melenian summoner, the two other aspiring adventurers on the eastern stairs, and the supposed full summoning sacrifice they were yet to see. Eleven frentits - five ghouls, two tables, the carpet, the water-beast, the pottery ghoul, and the blanket-wraith -, one supposed thalk. It was the third time he counted, and the numbers still added up.
Mistakes could happen - there could be more, and if there were, he was prepared. It was preferable to assume things were much worse than they should be, and end up not having to deal with them, than expect to get off lightly and find yourself in the thick of it with no reserves to spare. Deception was unlikely, but also never impossible; in theory, he was ready to oppose any and all of his supposed new allies the same.
It would not be an easy fight, especially if he didn't intend to outright kill them. It was always much harder to stop but not kill someone who was intent on killing you. He had no intention to have the Melenian summoner die needlessly, either. No matter how badly she had fucked up, Yanin didn't fancy himself judge and executioner.
And quite definitely, he wasn't intent on just letting someone die because it would have made removing the actual opponent much, much easier.

The Viper was inherently careful. Some would say paranoid. A person with his focus, memory and attention to detail, but lack of ability to really read people under different circumstances could easily end up being too trustful. Easily manipulated - and even if innately good-natured, knowledge and physical prowess alone could render someone incredibly dangerous. As it was, he had grown up among people who would risk their very lives to save someone, and then stop caring if there was nothing left to leverage out of the someone. So he trusted maybe three people in the world, and even so, he didn't necessarily always trust their judgement.
Most of the time, you could only assume other people did not want to die or be tortured - and even that was not absolute. Fanatics existed. Zealots. Liars.

"Seven guests, twelve divines. If what we know is accurate, one of each remains," the human knight reiterated. "It is unlikely she was possessed, unless a divine could possess someone to summon a body for itself."
Yanin wasn't aware of something like that being necessarily possible. If they could jump hosts under normal circumstances, 'lock them up and wait it out' would hardly work as a recommended method of containing wraiths and ghouls. Perhaps this scenario was just about atypical enough.
The deigan didn't have a plan, though one of them did inadvertently confirm she was most likely a necromancer of at least some skill. The Melenian, if responsive and able to move, would likely be insane and not cooperative. He might have been potentially the best swordsman alive in all of Reniam, but he was only the third best tactician in his family alone. Maybe fourth, after the Falcon of Glades.
"The best physical fighters in the room are myself and Sir Freagon, not knowing Lhirinthyl's skill with his sword unaided by magic, followed by Jordan and the easterner--" he referred to Jaelnec. "He doesn't fight?" That would divide the people roughly into four pairs. More than one pair at a time most likely wouldn't be able to enter the room concurrently. "The Melenian, if it's her still alive, is likely behind the first door in the hallway; if the divine is the same, and there is no door opening to the adjacent room, there are only two pre-existing exits, the main door, and the window." Forcing the thalk to move presumed there was someplace for it to move to.
Opening the second door first to confirm was an option. Opening a path to the divine would flood the room with excess divine energy, but also dilute it. The human knight's face was not visible, but even so, his expression had not changed when Deo'Irah mentioned divine energy; he simply seemed fully focused on sensing his surroundings. (Jordan clenched his jaw, but remained listening.) Seeing the Melenian was seemingly still alive, logic dictated it wasn't yet at levels that would outright kill in a dozen seconds - and most unarmored fights properly lasted a second. Two. Maybe three. More was exceedingly rare.

"Why would the Melenian be still alive?" Jordan suddenly interjected, if quietly. "Especially if the probably-thalk is pretty" ('damn pissed' most likely wasn't the most polite way to put it in the company of someone like Deo'Irah) "well, very extremely displeased with the situation... Is it a trap, or does it have plans for her, or just not ... care? I don't think thalks are known for their mercy, exactly..."

"No clue." He really hadn't. "Smoking the thalk out with existing tools would be difficult, even more so if we'd have to make it move past us or remove it through the window, and not kill the Melenian." Unfortunately, there were no silver bolts to spare. "Better options notwithstanding, we should move in position. Jordan, easterner, second door - we need to check it; wait for sign. Myself, Sir Freagon first door, Deo'Irah, Lhirinthyl, center. Who doesn't intend to fight, stand back until called for, see that there are no surprises." No point in flooding them with divine energy, too. "And whoever needs to hear it, do not leave yourself exposed. Deo'Irah - do you really intend to talk with the thalk?"



The seamstress had stood back during the fight, quietly observing the interactions between the various other members of their - now what was it? Assorted bunch of would-be adventurers brought together by temporal happenstance? Seemed that the younger nightwalker was quite infatuated with the lady deigan. Oh dear.
Only when the fighting had ceased and the combatants were making plans did she enter the main hall, arching a single eyebrow and tap a single fingernail against one of the instruments when Deo'Irah knowingly looked at her. She was here to mostly do one thing - and she had not neglected her tools. Sounded like it would be far too late for most of those in the building, though - except for, perhaps, the Melenian. At least unless there were non-medically approved uses for her means, anyway. In the calm, she had sashayed across the marred floor, and now stood next to the planners.

"Literally smoke out?" Madara inquired. "It's quite hard to ration doses in free-flowing smoke or vapour, I am afraid, and I'm only distantly familiar with the tolerances of Melenians - compared to humans, palanters or even deigan - and even less so divines. We can hardly assume something that would painfully disable - but never kill - all mammals, but not a bird or reptile, would also force out a divine, now can we?"
It would be an interesting experiment, to be sure - but the outcome might be a bit unpredictable with the whole lot milling about in an enclosed space.

Turning at hearing someone calling his name, Jaelnec paused in following his master to see what Jordan wanted, only for the young human to slide one of his iron truncheons toward the nightwalker. He followed the weapon with his eyes as it made its way across the floor, filling the air with a relatively subdued sound of metal rubbing on stone, before raising his gaze to meet Jordan's.
“Thanks!” he called back with a smile, only to then look down at his hands – the right one occupied by his sword, the left by the iron truncheon he had retrieved from the armory when instructed to do so by Freagon – and felt quite conflicted. On one hand he had far more training in swordsmanship than he did with any other kind of weapon, his sword had longer reach than the bludgeon and would generally allow for a broader variety of uses in combat. On the other the truncheon was relatively pure iron whereas his sword was mid-grade steel, which made the truncheon much more effective at countering spiritual opponents and disrupting magical effects.
In the end he decided to err on the side of caution – and on the side of not spurning Jordan's offer – by sheathing his sword and picking up the second truncheon to wield in his right hand. He figured that even if it turned out that Irah had been right in her suspicion earlier and they were dealing with a fully summoned divine, meaning that it was now physical rather than just spiritual and that disrupting its energy was no longer a viable way to stop it, another piece of iron would still be useful. Unlike frentits thalks were magic-users, after all, and having an extra thing to block offensive magic with or even just to throw at the enemy might be useful. If he needed his sword it would not take long to simply discard one or both truncheons and drawing the blade.

Pausing to retrieve the truncheon also meant that Jaelnec was facing toward the entrance of the manor hall when Madara entered, and he found himself momentarily distracted by her approach. He was not sure why she had even come given that she had essentially been a spectator so far and simply stayed back to let others fight... though the same could be said about him, of course. In fact the argument could be made that he had been even worse than useless, having been practically incapacitated by a bright light almost immediately and been reduced from the one guarding the non-combatants to a helpless burden. Irah had even said a prayer to heal his eyes, thus inflicting him and herself with divine taint just to make him vaguely useful again. A small, almost negligible amount of taint, granted, but even small amounts added up with how long it took divine taint to fade. He had been a drain on their limited resources while providing no benefit to their situation.
But what really gave Jaelnec pause was the way Madara moved. He had not really paid much attention to her previously aside from identifying her as a woman – she was a bit old for him, after all, and there was just something a bit... off about her due to her palanter-blood – but the way she walked somehow managed to push through his mental filters. There was no denying that she was an attractive woman, and though her charm was of a quite different nature than the agelessly ever-young and innocent-seeming Irah, looking at her now, Jaelnec could not help but to feel something stirring in his youthful, hormonal blood.
He wondered who she was, why she was here, where she had come from and all manner of other things. At the moment he did not even know her name, and the lack of familiarity was yet another reason that he was much more interested in Irah at the moment. He knew her name and he knew at least some of her abilities as an elementalist and a Favored One (or so he thought) and suspected that she was a necromancer... and on top of that he had already shared a moment of brief and platonic intimacy with her.
Of course none of this ranked very high on his list of priorities and were categorized in his head more as fanciful daydreaming than actual concerns he had. It was far from the first time he had felt attraction, after all, but he and Freagon always moved on and left everyone else behind. A disillusioned part of Jaelnec already expected Irah, Madara and Nabi – and everyone else, for that matter – to be left behind this time, too, once Freagon had gotten what he was here after, whatever that might be. Nothing but a fantasy. A hopeless dream. The legacy of the last Knight of the Will did not have time for romance.

---

Upstairs Freagon did as had been requested and accompanied Lhirin, occasionally and habitually turning Roct in his hand to switch which edge was lower and hopefully minimize the amount of blood dripping from its still-wet blade. It was because he had been told to accompany the deigan man and was specifically paying attention to him that Freagon noticed him holding up a hand and showing first five, then two fingers, which made the knight cock his head curiously and narrow his eye behind the visor of his helmet. He followed Lhirin's gaze and direction he had been showing his fingers, and found that Irah was the only one in the area that seemed poised and attentive to read this gesture. That made sense, the two seemed to know each other.
But then just a little later, when they had started congregating on the hallway leading toward the room with the divine, he noticed Lhirin making another, much subtler series of hand-gestures. It was quite covert, his hand remaining at his side rather than raising; Freagon would not have noticed had he not seen the gesture before and been asked to attend Lhirin specifically. He had no idea what the purpose of the gestures were – whether they were the visual component of casting a spell, an attempt to communicate with someone, or just a nervous tic – but they did not seem random. And since he suspected Irah to be the one Lhirin had communicated with silently before, he also caught her making deliberate eye-contact with her companion a while later and shaking her head; a gesture that could easily be interpreted as natural and insignificant on its own, but which added another instance of wordless communication between them to Freagon's list.
Freagon was not pleased. Worse, he was getting impatient with these two. He had no idea what it was that they felt the need to communicate about in secret like this – whether it had something to do with Irah's unusual ability to detect and analyze divines from afar or something else – and he did not care. If there was something important enough to need to talk about now, it was important enough to convey to everyone involved, not just each other. And if they truly had information that was sensitive enough for it to be dangerous to them if the rest of the group knew... well, that was bad, too. A hazard and a burden.
His mood was getting worse, and his opinion of the deigan pair was deteriorating fast. If secrecy was truly this paramount to them even in the midst of a situation with lives potentially at stake, Freagon had to seriously reconsider whether he could use them.

He listened to Lhirin's input and nodded his head, indifferent to the obvious conclusions he was sharing but appreciative of his brevity. Then he listened to Irah and nodded his head again, likewise satisfied with her conclusions but annoyed with her wordiness, particularly since most of what she said were things he already knew, and he had to remind himself that not everyone were as experienced with the extraordinary as him. Even so he remained painfully aware of time passing with each uttered word, knowing that every second they spent talking about this thalk would give it more divine energy to work with and make it even more dangerous. With creatures like this, time was the absolute worst thing they could give it.
Yanin's words were briefer and more practical, which Freagon appreciated. He also referenced Freagon with the appropriate honorific, which he also appreciated.
“The boy can fight,” Freagon replied when Jaelnec's viability as a combatant was called into question, “but I'd prefer to avoid it.” Which was why Jaelnec had instructions to watch from a safe distance. The page had never participated in a real fight before, but he had sparred with Freagon and studied the knight fighting countless times.

The rest were more-or-less just musings on their options and what to expect, which Freagon listened to attentively more as a way to learn about the people speaking than what they were speaking about. It was interesting. But as much as he loathed spending more precious time talking, he figured he had better add his own observations and opinions to the mix.
“The Melenian is the last person here as far as we know,” he reminded everyone, not to convey new information but simply to establish the basis for the conclusions that followed. “The sobbing does not sound Melenian. And if it is fully summoned, that only leaves one person to be sacrificed for that to happen.”
Though not a practitioner of magic himself, Freagon was quite familiar with most of the basic mechanics of pretty much all schools of magic either from experience or from what he had learned to be able to know what to expect and how to deal with it. The only price exacted for summoning divine spirits into wraiths and ghouls was magical energy, meaning it could be done as long as that energy was available. A full summoning, however, required a sacrifice proportional to the divine summoned; specifically, such a summoning always required life. Someone had to die and their bodies serve as the material for the divine to construct its vessel from. With a lesser divine such as a thalk a single sapient life should suffice, but whoever served as sacrifice would not only be killed in the process, but even their remains would be consumed in the process.
Add to that the clumps of bloody fur on the landing and the bloody pawprints leading to the door, and he figured the conclusion to draw was obvious.
“The Melenian is dead. This is a trap.” To him those matters were not debatable, they were certainties. “It's not going to move. I'll kill it.”

Irah considered Yanin’s words, weighing them carefully in her mind over the few seconds it would take her to respond. The simple truth was that too much remained a mystery for them to make any proper judgements or plans–they would have to observe what was happening and make a decision then. It made her uneasy, in truth–she was comfortable with following orders that she could see the sense of, that resonated with her own values. The voice of Freagon adding an offer to simply slay the thing was thoroughly discordant with her own opinions, and her eyes narrowed softly as her smile soured very slightly at the corners of her mouth.

“If being the crux of things. We simply do not know what we will face, and we will have to make a judgement swiftly. Perhaps the magical disruption we felt earlier was the traces of a previous aura fading… The vials of piaan were found here, it would be reasonable to assume that she summoned the divines here… There are far too many variables: the Melenian’s resistance, the spell she used, the realm and deity they belong to (where applicable). She might have summoned a divine into herself to better steel herself against the silvered swords of these misguided zealots. If the opportunity presents itself for this to be ended by a conversation, we should take it–if not, they must be slain and banished from our world. I will defer to your best judgement.” Irah replied to Yanin, mien thoughtful and words chosen quickly but carefully. Her coy smile returned somewhat, gaze steeled towards the first door as she took her position beside Lhirin. Ordinarily she might protest more, but her thoughts drifted back to the bandits and the abducted healer. Time was against them, and she would endeavour to save as many lives as possible. The Melenian might not be able to be saved at all–if she had died, the divine energy would likely have forced her to accept the Wanderer’s invitation to realms beyond. The cries certainly didn’t sound feline, though–she suspected that the Melenian had, indeed, perished here and what remained was an invitation. Less to heal, she supposed, though the tragedy of it pulled at her heartstrings–so much life and potential wasted, all for the fervour and lack of open mindedness of a few poor actors… but she could not get distracted. The posturing was ultimately pointless, as they would know only as soon as they opened the door and no sooner.

“Thalks revel in deception, and a stronger will appears to have been guiding these Frentits to ambush us–and it is common for Thalks to lay multiple traps, knowing that opponents will be more disarmed after the first. I am uncomfortable with death as a first resort, but… If it will save more lives, so be it. We are wasting time and there are still the bandits to deal with.” Irah added on, speaking again after Freagon had approached more closely. She noticed the way he rotated his sword very clearly, the little glints of light dancing along its surface visible in her periphery. His stance read as displeased to her, the twisting of his sword both for the purposes of minimising the gentle drops of blood that she could hear hitting the floor every now and again, and for an outlet for his restless energy. He’d not reacted the way the others had at her exposition, though his unmoving face made it difficult to tell–it was only through his movement that she could glean a sense of what he was thinking, and she could still feel that nagging sensation of being tested… but it had been pushed below the many more pressing and immediate thoughts in her mind, and she did not consider it beyond the recognition that it existed as she awaited the conclusion of this event, eager to have the tension and suspense dispelled.

---

The adrenaline had faded by now from their previous encounters with the corpse-men and wraith-things, and Nabi felt it as she followed the rest of her new-found party. A wave of tiredness had encompassed her, mixed with a small amount of nausea from the smell of the corpses that had only really just taken hold after the adrenaline had worn off, both from those that had been subject to a thorough roasting by means of fire and lightning - burning flesh and hair had such a wonderful aroma, after all - and those that had merely had their innards - and doubtless whatever they had last had to eat - exposed to the open air. The smell of smouldering cloth added a faintly acrid aftertaste to the cavalcade of rottenness. She was no stranger to foul smells, with the ashlands of the east having all manner of vile stenches and putrid odours emanating from within the bowels of the earth, but it never got any easier to strengthen one's stomach against such things.

There was now talk between the various people, with mentions of divines, taint, and an angel to boot, all of which set Nabi positively ill-at-ease, with no small amount of trepidation now occupying her mind - and perhaps a bit of fear. Her inexperience with matters of corpse-men and wraith-things had already been exposed for the rest of the people to see, and now they were talking of fighting divines and angels? What was she to do, trust that this silver sword - that she had only just acquired - was capable of dispatching a divine? Or were they planning on bombarding their opponent with a constant barrage of magic - assuming that these divines were even susceptible to mortal magic that is - and praying that it would be sufficient? Questions began circling in her head, questions that she had no answer to, questions that she wanted to speak aloud but feared mockery from her new companions-

No. Enough fretting. There had to be some way of dealing with whatever was ahead of them. She had yet to find a foe, inexperience aside, that would not fall to spell and swordcraft, even if it was a divine. She refocused herself on the conversation in time for the cyclops black-eye - no, nightwalker, she corrected herself - to speak in his gruff tone.

“The Melenian is dead. This is a trap.”

You mean another trap, surely? Nabi was about to open her mouth to respond, but the female deigan had already had taken that chance - and it was probably for the best, as they definitely seemed to know what they were talking about. They mentioned empty vials, something called piaan - Nabi vaguely had heard of this, it was some drug that magicians used - and "thalks" and "frentits". From the context, if nothing else, Nabi assumed that the "thalk" was whatever they were preparing to face next, and the "frentits" were probably the wraith-things that had inhabited the carpets, tables, corpse-men, and other such delights that they had already dispatched. Had the Mellen-whatever summoned this thalk to defend themselves from the witch-hunters with silvered swords? It didn't seem unlikely. "Well, at least somebody has told me what has been happening. I was starting to think I would never get that explanation." Nabi gave a wry snicker.

"We are wasting time and there are still the bandits to deal with.”

Of course. The bandits were still out there... and if this "thalk" was stronger than all of the previous things - no, frentits, use the proper term, she reminded herself - then there would be no small amount of effort and energy expended as a result. Nabi figured she'd at least chime in with her own opinion... everyone else had done so, after all.

"One issue at a time. If this... thalk? Yes, thalk... If the thalk is stronger than anything we have yet dealt with, we should not overstretch, even if it means the bandits have to wait their turn. If it helps your thoughts, I am quite good at tracking?" Nabi offered as reassuring a smile as she could muster.

The human knight gave little outward acknowledgement of Freagon's notion that he'd prefer the boy didn't fight, besides a soft, "Hmm". Guy looked to be close to Jordan's age, give or take - which, given he was a nightwalker, probably meant that he was older than Yanin himself. For the time being, though, that reasonably meant that he could left where he was, as the two non-combatants, not involved aside of being maybe not entirely defenseless, should some kind of nasty surprise arise. All they'd need to do was hold on until someone else could disengage.

His knowledge of what alchemical or chemical compounds would, or wouldn't affect divines was, quite naturally, inferior to the half-palanter, which was to say, he didn't have a clue.

“The Melenian is the last person here as far as we know,” Freagon took the time to remind everyone.
They didn't know, though. They had concluded, given what little information was available. It was the straightforward deduction. And yet, the old nightwalker was also insisting the crying didn't sound Melenian which he couldn't fully conform or deny. Their voice was quite tonally different, inhuman, that much was true. Sobbing, however, was not necessarily as distinct - insofar it was an atypical vocalization he had not heard before. For the time being, it was at least probable Freagon's assessment - at least in regards to the Melenian-ness of the entity producing the noise - was accurate.
"A trap set up before we even entered the building," Yanin noted; at this time he was mostly thinking loudly. Spared time.
He had already heard the sobbing from outside. The second wave of ghouls and wraiths had seemingly acted on a cue, but the crying had remained unchanged. If the supposed thalk was orchestrating it all, it certainly seemed like it liked setting up stages. He had brought up the idea of the divine, possessing the Melenian, managing to summon a body for itself using the unseen seventh guest as a sacrifice - a possibility which neither Freagon or Deo'Irah had countered. The latter even confirmed her originally summoning the divine into herself was a possibility.
"Unless the Melenian herself, on piaan and half-bled out, managed to become the sacrifice, and the seventh guest remains." Lady Bor had only said the summoner was the only Melenian - Yanin didn't seem to recall her specifying she was the only female guest. Might also explain why she had not been offed by the divine or the taint, if she managed to lock herself up in the adjacent room, and not with the divine ... or she could be by the thalk's feet, slowly cooked by the divine energy while the angel waited on whoever would show up. A major issue for them, however, was the extent of the trickery.
"If that's not a thalk's normal vocal range, nor the seventh guest, we might as well assume everything could be an illusion." Make the fighters fight figments of light, heck, make them run through a corpse or a potential lone survivor...
The dark one spoke - offering her aid in tracking.
"We'll see. One thing at a time. Now, any one of you three have a means to dispel illusions and the energy to use them? We will need the truth of what we're fighting against."
And that was that: the one last question to ask before taking position and breaching. As far as Yanin was concerned, Freagon could have his kill - as long as they knew exactly what he was killing.

---

Prior words spoken, Lhirin simply observed silently for a time, his wide silver eyes flitting between the members of their ragtag gathering. Some of the information, presented anew, led him to new ideas, particularly that the sobbing they could hear was not the Melenian...but perhaps the divine itself. Among the words that the others communicated, those and Yanin's suggestion of the order of their entry were perhaps the most important.

The only others he deigned consider was the query posed to the mages among them, himself obviously foremost in their gathering. Running over his list of spells silently, Lhirin concluded that he had no specialized means of identifying, nor disrupting, illusion magics. Of course...he could use his own magical energy to disrupt any such spell's energies. However, given that the working would be generated by divine magic and not the energies he was more familiar with, meant that it would be an unsure thing. Further, and more importantly perhaps, to use his energy in that way would be exceptionally inefficient, particularly in the environs that the illusion magic would be sure to reside within. That being a room suffused with divine energy, which--much like the hall--would likely weaken his own magics significantly.

However, these musings were not the essential ones, rather what he said in reply was."Disturbing, and likely, as the Thalk's deception may be, I do not believe these sobs to be an illusion. To create one such thing they would needs extend their energies beyond the confines of this threshold in greater quantities than either myself or Irah have sensed." Fingers tapping at the guard of his runeblade, Lhirin continued "Perhaps it is generating the sound from within, via illusion or sound magics. If so...it could simply be to confound our impressions of the situation we are to enter. A distraction. An additional variable to muddy our impressions and tie up our attention."

Lhirin's eyes narrowed at the thought, then his gaze turned toward the door. "Even if this proves true, we can do naught but press forth and respond as expediently as we are able, with the thought kept in mind."

That said, Lhirin glanced between the others a moment, then concluded his thoughts. "As has been said, now we are simply passing time, and time is our enemy in this instance. Thus, I suggest we press forth and do away with further theory for it only serves to aid our would-be foe, if it is indeed such." His piece said, Lhirin closed his eyes and simply listened, focusing on the energies and resources he yet had at his disposal, rather than further conversation.

It was a more valuable use of his time.

The human squire listened, eyes moving from one speaker to the next. The foreigner offered she was good at tracking - something which Sir Yanin seemed almost dismissive of... Probably because, in this given instance, the location of their objective wasn't exactly unknown, as evidenced by the noise and - now that Jordan himself was standing higher up on the stairs - the rather self-evident trails of blood. Afterwards, though?
"It would definitely be of use, later," he offered to the dark-skinned woman in a rushed, hushed tone, "We are missing, I guess, at least two people from this town and I suppose there is also some kind of bandit outpost nearby that needs finding." The others continued speaking, silencing the guy for a moment.
Illusion. That answered the question of why there was seemingly still a mundane alive, though not necessarily why the thalk would sit around waiting for someone to come to ... him? it? Sir Yanin had said they looked much like tall humans with red skin.
As a notion that was probably only blatantly obvious to him, Sir Yanin did not seem to have any particular qualms with Sir Freagon offering to take killing the divine upon himself. That was mostly how the human knight operated: silence meant he was fine with whatever he heard. Sir Yanin, as a general rule, had no particular drive to be the only one to do everything. If he had, he would have opted to work exclusively alone, he'd said as much. If Sir Freagon felt like volunteering, then he could.
If it had been Jordan saying the same, however, then he'd most likely have been countered with a 'you'd get yourself killed' before he could close his mouth. Annoyingly, he'd most likely be right. Almost equally annoyingly, this brief encounter seemed to have been enough for him to rule the old nightwalker able to live up to his words (or at least not fail immediately and catastrophically), be it by some virtue of hearsay only his master was privy to, or just by observing his equipment and him fighting, ever so briefly.
All deduction from being around the other for eight years and counting. Even if Sir Yanin's face had not been concealed behind his helmet, there was little information to be gleaned from it. He just watched and listened, not even the people, just the doors above, almost statuesque.

"A quick clarification -" this was aimed at Deo'Irah, as she seemed to be the most knowledgeable in the matter "- if we open the door, will divine energy come spilling forth like water from a broken dam, or more like a creeping bank of fog?" It was probably completely invisible and nigh intangible until your skin began to resemble that of a shirtless drunk passed out in full summer sun, of course, but just to have a better idea of what was going to happen. Walls and doors seemed to be able to contain it - that much his master had known to share -, but other than that, new territory.
Better to have a plan. Maybe a few plans. The human knight's only question was simple - can they get rid of the illusion? Lhirinthyl's response was more about the nature he suspected the spell to have, but offered little in the ways of a direct counter.
The female deigan could offer little more. "I can only offer my senses, which are impeded by the divine energy. Should I notice something, I will say."
The foreigner's reply was the least verbose:"Uh, no, sorry.".
"Then we'll have do make do with assuming everything could be a lie. More so if it doesn't quite fit."

The human knight ascended slowly - and surprisingly quietly for someone in full armor, well oiled and fluid in motion, nary more than the faintest tink of a link of mail falling in place against another.
Right. The first two doors of the hallway, in the side they could see, appeared identical, no visible locks, just an unassuming bar-handle. Hinges on the left. Probably ... if he was correct, opening inwards, into the rooms? As they neared the rooms, Sir Yanin motioned the silver sword towards the lower edge of the first door.
Unlike with the communication between the deigan, this gesture lacked any covertness. The knight was just pointing it out in a sweeping motion to anyone who cared to pay attention, blade carefully kept high enough up to not reflect anything back. Light could betray if someone was behind a door, or a corner. Light could also betray you if it cast a shadow of you onto something.
Jordan trained his eyes on the light, flickering and dim, maybe cast by a flame. There were no obvious breaks in it, he didn't think, as one would expect if there were furniture or people standing between the source of the light and the door. Actually, neither did it seem to come from a specific side, either, as you'd expect from a fireplace (had there been any chimneys on the roof?), so was it magic, or lamps? Or ... had someone made a campfire right behind the door? Wouldn't smoke be seeping out from the upper edge of the door yet, if that were the case?
There was the cracking of fire, at least. Lamps, oil didn't crack quite like that. The crying was louder.
Smelled like ... well, that could have just been the burning rags and wood and charred ghoul and blood from below. Also, was it just him, or was it getting warmer?
In one measured, quick motion, sound swallowed by the sobs and snaps, the human knight was with his back against the wall on the opposite side of the door, truncheon blocking anyone of standard human strength from opening it, yet nevertheless held so that if a force far beyond a human were to tear it open - or blast it out, it would wrench the iron away quite harmlessly, and not crush the knight's had between metal and shatter his bones.
For a second he stilled, listening, then motioned the two deigan, the dark one and Jordan past - quiet, fast, do not linger behind doors and in lines of sight, and for Sir Freagon to move to the other side of the door. As the others passed, the knight raised the silver sword, observing the reflection of the door on its blade. Might give a split-second advantage in reacting. Might be more than deciding.
The nerve of impending fight creeping in, Jordan mirrored his master behind the second door, quietly motioning the foreigner to be on the opposite side to the door if she weren't already. Sir Yanin shifted from latching the door handle to simply resting the end of it against the door's surface, quite possibly to push it open.

Nothing more immediate ensuing, Jordan tried showing his - the second - door open with the truncheon, barring immediate reaction slowly peering in, reflection, light and line of sight (anything? connecting doors? place to hide from divine energy? the noise, at least, seemed to come from the first room only...). If Sir Freagon indicated Sir Yanin to do the same, he would. The nightwalker had, after all, effectively volunteered to go first. Also, they wouldn't have fit in precisely shoulder-to-shoulder.

Inside his helmet, mostly hidden from the others behind its visor, Freagon closed his eye and turned his attention inward while the others spoke. He felt the slow, steady and heavy beats of his heart in his chest, heard his pulse resonating in his skull, and started counting them. He imagined the thalk in the room ahead, its form pulsing in rhythm with his heart, and imagined how every beat pumped not only blood through his own veins, but also yet more divine energy out of their quarry. Felt his heart ticking time away.
Uncertainties, variables, details... it was pointless to even discuss it in the first place, as far as Freagon was concerned. They would not know anything for certain until they opened the door and saw for themselves, and if they had to plan a contingency for every possible more or less expected thing that could meet them in there they would be talking until late into the night. Sure, the it might not be a thalk at all, despite Irah's suspicions of such; there might be hostages they did not know about that they had to try to save; the Melenian might still be alive and in need of aid; and what awaited them on the other side of the door was almost certainly a trap of some kind. They did not know, though, nor did they know a million other things that could alter how they should respond to the situation. His philosophy was simple in terms of such concerns: plan for what you know, improvise for you do not.
The one thing the others discussed that even the nightwalker knight conceded to himself had some merit was the part about thalks having a proclivity for deception – they were Angels of Deceit, after all – and the desire to have a way to tell reality from illusion. Frustratingly this was discussed while yet more heartbeats went by, and essentially concluded in “There may or may not be illusions, but even if there are we have no way of dispelling them or seeing through them.”
Freagon actually rolled his eye at this, difficult though it would be for anyone to see it. It was to be expected of mages to seek magical solutions to every problem, and the fact that Yanin did the same suggested that he was far from accustomed to dealing with illusions either. Without a word, Freagon reached his left hand down to his right thigh, swiftly undid his pursestring and pulled out four silver coins.

Then, finally, people started moving. Slowly and cautiously, which was somewhat called for, but moving nonetheless. Everyone went to take their places in the hallway, with Yanin and Freagon taking up places on either side of the door they knew the divine awaited beyond. The one-eyed knight's attention quickly shifted from his heartbeat to his skin, as even now, just standing outside the room, he could already feel a faint prickling in his skin. The door was not a perfect seal, and though it was not as intense as it would likely be inside, everyone but Yanin would faintly feel the warm, vaguely uncomfortable tingling sensation of divine energy in the air as they walked past the door.
Freagon clenched his jaw. Another hourglass had been turned, another price for the time they took had been claimed. Even without opening the door, they were already slowly accumulating divine taint.

Down the hall, about twelve meters from the door Freagon and Yanin flanked, Jordan slowly and cautiously opened the second door, only to find a nice and tidy bedroom beyond. Clean wooden floorboards, walls with wood paneling and nearly three meters to a wooden ceiling. On the right side of the room from his perspective – the west end of the room – stood a neatly made bed with a white woolen blanket folded at its foot and a soft-looking pillow sitting at the head of the bed on top of a nice, soft mattress. Next to the bed was the westmost upstairs window they had seen from outside, through which bountiful sunlight fell into the room in all its radiant glory.
Opening the door further and checking the left – or eastern – side of the room, toward where it would join with the room with the divine in it, he would find a wooden table, about two meters long, with six chairs around it; two on either side and one at either end. Beyond those was a wall.
Aside from these things and a couple of wall-mounted candleholders with unlit candles, the room appeared empty and still.

Yanin was prepared to repeat the process of slowly and safely opening their door, and seemed to await a signal. Though Yanin did not feel it, Freagon was acutely conscious of the prickling on his skin, of the sand running through the hourglass.
Plan for what you know, improvise for what you do not.
Ignoring Yanin's desire for caution and taking the queue to take the lead, Freagon simply stepped in front of the door, turned the handle with the pommel of his sword, and kicked the door open with his boot, all in quick succession.
“Stop!” a deep, powerful, authoritative and masculine voice immediately boomed from within, immediately recognizable to Irah, Lhirin and Nabi in particular as True Words since they heard it not as Rodorian, but as their respective native languages. Along with the voice came an invisible veritable flood of divine energy washing past and through the now-open doorway, past Freagon and into the hallway. The faint prickling instantly because a painful twinge not just for Freagon or those in the immediate vicinity of the door, but for everyone in the hallway except Yanin.

Immediately on the other side of the door, Freagon was met by flames; a crackling orange, smokeless, chest-height wall of fire that drew a semicircle on the floor just inside the room, radiating light and heat... though not as much heat as one would expect from such large flames. It felt hot, certainly, but not painfully so, and the floorboards below them did not appear charred.
To his right, in the western end of the room, Freagon found (though he had not seen it and could not know it) that this room was built and furnished exactly like the bedroom Jordan had just witnessed, with the only exception being that the window was farther from the bed. The bed in this room was also not made and, more importantly, was currently occupied. A human-looking child, a girl of maybe five or six years of age by the looks of it, was lying motionless on top of the blankets with closed eyes. Behind the bed with her back against the wall, a human woman with a notable familial resemblance to the child was kneeling, holding one of the little girl's hands in her own with tears streaming down her face, sobbing desperately.
Hovering above the bed, centered directly over the chest of the little girl, hang a large, impressive golden sword suspended in mid-air. It was poised with its tip aimed downward, clearly ready to plunge downward at any second to impale the child and likely kill the mother as well.
And finally, at the foot of the bed, there was an angel. It looked like a human man, young, handsome and clean-shaven with bronze skin and long, flowing locks of platinum hair. He wore a suit of impressive golden plate armor and looked to stand well over two meters tall, with a bulk beneath the armor that suggested a deeply intimidating musculature. Even more noticeable than its relatively human and mundane features were the wings on his back, however; three pairs of large bird-like wings, currently partially folded, with feathers the color of his hair. Anyone with even a passing familiarity with divines would be able to tell that this was obviously not a thalk; this was an archangel, and a rather flamboyant one at that.
Fingers of golden lightning were crawling up and down the archangel's arms, moving all the way from the shoulders to the tips of his fingers. It was all very impressive.
Freagon turned his head and looked at the left – east – side of the room, and found that aside from the same set of table and chairs as the bedroom Jordan had seen, it was conspicuously empty.

Without altering his stance but simply maintaining a posture that was not overtly aggressive, but ready to react, Freagon wiggled the fingers on his left hand before flicking his wrist. The silver glint of a single rodlin darted through the flames and across the room, aimed at the hip of the child in the bed. As expected he then heard the sound of the coin hitting the wall behind the “hostages”.
“I said stop!” the angel commanded again, his voice thundering even louder than before. He held up a bidding hand toward the doorway, and the lightning around the outstretched arm seemed to intensify. “Not one more step, villain!”
Ignoring the angel, feeling confident enough to look away, Freagon turned his head toward Irah. “Talk.”