The reveal of information was relatively rapid from then on out–Sir Yanin’s diligent caution did not escape Deo’Irah’s attention, focused even on the most minute of details even now. He had certainly proven his keen intellect in her mind, though she suspected the scope of his piercing gaze might be its downfall–the price of his powerful grasp of the minutiae was a far more nebulous grasp of the wider abstract concepts at play. She made a mental note of it, and her mind turned to Jordan for the briefest of moments–that was likely his role in their partnership. He seemed… astute and unpretentious, able to avoid the common pitfall of more cerebral thinkers like his master (and indeed herself and Lhirin) thinking themselves into traps most people simply would never conceive of. Even in their movements, the flow of information and commands from the knight to his squire, there was something that naturally drew Irah’s attention. She shelved that observation for later too, focusing intently on the door that was about to be opened and the situation revealed.

She could already feel the divine energy too, offering a very quiet explanation of what precisely exposure to divine energy felt like–she was very curious as to why he was not able to feel it in the same way that they did: “You will only feel it; a prickling itch, then painful exhaustion until death. Do you not?”

Irah watched the scene around them unfold, her eyes narrowing in intensity as she attempted to emulate some of the granular attention to detail that Lhirin normally displayed, somewhat inspired by Sir Yanin, and focused on the details that mattered. In her periphery she could see Freagon’s movements, reaching into his coinpurse for… ah. Rodlin were pure silver. It was easy for her to forget, with her native currency of Kyrin being more crystalline and thus not interacting with energies in the same way that Rodlin did. Another display of aptitude from the mysterious Freagon. She continued her examinations while she awaited the inevitable result, listening out for the sound while her eyes were trained elsewhere.

The Archangel’s likeness seemed mostly to conflate with her understanding–snippets gleaned from stories, from books, from speaking with divines such as Kinder. She focused intently for a moment on the sword itself–she’d heard it described that the telekinetic ability of the Archangels functioned like an invisible hand, observable only through keen attention to the displacement of air currents about it. She attempted to discern any details regarding this that she could, and also observed the peculiar circle of fire and coursing bolts of lightning that it had chosen to display. The abilities, together, did not answer her earlier pondering over which deity this divine owed allegiance to. She then simply spoke to Kinder, keenly aware from earlier that while the senses she offered had detected the divines present it had also alerted them to hers. Indeed, Kinder had told her earlier that the divine they stood before now was attempting to hide--this flamboyant display smacked too much of a ruse, she thought, and then the ping of the Rodlin against the wall behind them chimed in too. She proceeded to commune with Kinder directly:

“Illusory, I am certain–what is your read? I am entirely uncertain to which deity it belongs, also..?” Irah began, wanting another form of confirmation before she gave Yanin the go-ahead to simply slay it where it stood. She could just imagine Lhirin reading a passage from the Deo’iel’s text reiterating that it is always safest to simply slay a divine where they stand for the sake of all living things around them. They would not perish, only return to the divine realms–it was now likely too late to save any who remained here, but even that could only truly be assessed once the threat was dealt with.

“I do not -” Kinder began, only for the archangel’s eyes to instantly shift their focus from Freagon to Irah. Though the being inside the room had appeared composed before, albeit defensive and indignant, that composure seemed to vanish as soon as it laid eyes on her, and its face twisted into a grimace of rage and hatred to match what Kinder had reported earlier.
“No!” Kinder exclaimed in a panicked tone. “Deo’irah, it is not -”
A strange sensation came over Irah at that moment; a wave of cold, like stepping through a curtain of water. It lasted only an instant before it abated… but when the chill vanished, the familiar stinging heat of Kinder had disappeared along with it.
“Hypocrites!” the archangel boomed furiously, clenching its fists and sending fingers of lightning out to caress the floor, walls and ceiling. “You hound summoners and divines mercilessly, come here to destroy me, and you bring your own angel slaves? Disgusting creatures!”

The sensation of Kinder being ripped from within her gripped her like a freezing curtain of ice, and shudders of distant recollections of a similar cold flooded her and steeled her focus. Something about the kindly nature with which she had generally held herself and presented dropped, and a spark of genuine and indignant fury sparked within her that she failed to contain.

“You dare accuse me of hypocrisy after ripping my friend and ally from me?! I have never enslaved another being!” she seethed, voice frigid with icy fury. “We act in concert to bring Reina’s mercy to this world, something her soul fundamentally longs for, and you have the gall to strip her of the means to achieve her desires after having had lives sacrificed to grant you yours?!” she continued to rant, having slipped immediately into her native Fermian without the composure to restructure her thoughts into Rodorian. She took a shaky breath in to steel herself, body feeling not… better, for Kinder’s absence, but no longer accumulating something making it worse from within as well.

The archangel scoffed at her, but gestured at Freagon. “You expect me to believe anything you say? This one comes here bearing a silver sword and declared that he would kill me, and even you said you would see me banished or slain. You mundanes are all the same. A conversation? What would that solve? You said it yourself: I do not belong here, and someone had to…” It paused for just a second, wincing. “To die for me to be here. Because of you!”

Deo’Irah took a moment to observe the divine’s reply, her world shrunk down to this interaction in an ironic twist of her earlier observations about the knight, noticing the wince and seeing it as the chink in its proverbial armour she needed to capitalise upon immediately. She allowed herself a moment of frenzied focus, allowing enough time to pass for her to consider the options available but not so much she might lose her opportunity–contingent upon the others, who’d surely made actions of their own during her outburst.

He hadn't had much time to mull over Deo'Irah's note that divine energy was invisible, odorless, silent, intangible in the direct sense, but ... itchy, painful, exhausting. A bit like a sunburn, or lye, perhaps ... those, too, felt like nothing at first, but then started burning, itching, and finally, your skin started peeling off. Except, for excess contamination with divine energy, in the end, you also died.
That did not seem to be like a pleasant way to go, if there even was such a thing. So, how soon would I know if too much was too much? went unasked.
"It moves fast," Sir Yanin had noted, almost inaudible. He always seemed to listen, and have unusually good hearing at that.

Once opening the second door, odd warmth and numbness taking over his body - was it the fire he heard, the hopefully minuscule amounts of divine energy seeping through the door he and the dark-skinned woman had just passed, just him responding to a new threat before even fully winding down from the last? - he was confronted with ... nothing? Carefully peering through the crack between the door and its frame, and glancing at the rear corner behind him, he came face to-face with little more than a quite nice, if a bit sparse bedroom. No fireplaces, no additional doors, just a bed that on any other day, would have looked quite inviting, a table, some chairs and candleholders...
Neglecting the idea that this, too, might be a trick, he turned his attention to the minor commotion ensuing in the corridor, which seemed to involve his master preparing to open his door and Sir Freagon simply opting to stand in front of it to -
Jordan's eyes widened as Sir Yanin quickly motioned him to back down with his sword-hand, even as the rest of the human knight's body remained motionless.
He trusted his master's judgement in matters of combat, so he didn't even think, let alone question it, he just grabbed the foreigner by her shoulder, half-showing her in, and slamming the door after himself, just as another crash indicated that the nightwalker-knight had probably just opted to kick the first door open.
"Sorry-that--" he began to apologize to the dark-skinned woman, slightly out of breath and not really having a pause between the words.
“Stop!” a voice boomed, and the squire flinched.
"--meant... get... back," he finished, much quieter, and now leaving too much of a pause between words.
The corridor was probably flooded with divine energy now, was it not? Maybe diluted compared to what it had been in the more enclosed space, but flooded regardless. The door here would probably slow it down again, maybe for even longer than the first one had... He could...
Would it - at least some of it get out if he were to open a window or something, like you could with smoke? Half dazed, he meandered several steps closer to the window ... no, he didn't think it could be opened, not unless he decided to whack it with the truncheon until it simply shattered. Which ... he might do if he felt his skin starting to crawl and burn, he guessed. Doing so now probably wouldn't help the ones in the corridor, but maybe it would be worth the further disrespect of Lady Vela Bor's property if it meant not having all of everyone's skin peel off. And then death.
"I said stop," the voice of what Jordan could only presume was the divine thundered again, even louder, “Not one more step, villain!”
"Talk," another voice said ... that was Sir Freagon, he thought.

"I don't think the window can be opened, but we might have to break it if there is too much divine energy ... I think," he muttered to the foreigner, resigned, as he moved back to the door. It's not like he had anything more useful to do here, but listen.
It was the divine who spoke again. It? He? He sounded wrathful. “You hound summoners and divines mercilessly, come here to destroy me, and you bring your own angel slaves? Disgusting creatures!”
The what now!? In spite the circumstances, the notion was enough to give him a pause. Well, it couldn't have been aimed at him or Sir Yanin, because neither of them was proficient enough with the right kind of magic to even try to summon anyone, and at least Sir Freagon seemed to think the Melenian was dead, so who--
It was Deo'Irah who answered, in Fermian, which Jordan couldn't comprehend past simple greetings and farewells and thank yous. He thought he heard Reina's name, though, and the deigan's voice was uncharacteristically (what he knew of her character, anyway) irate, icy, enraged even. He would probably finish digesting her hidden skills afterwards, once he can stop wondering if his skin would slough off or if everyone in the corridor would, without warning, just be reduced into charred smears on the opposing wall.
“You expect me to believe anything you say? This one comes here bearing a silver sword and declared that he would kill me, and even you said you would see me banished or slain. You mundanes are all the same. A conversation? What would that solve? You said it yourself: I do not belong here, and someone had to…" Pause. "To die for me to be here. Because of you!”
Well, standing here was probably utterly useless ... talking, though, was usually ... often, his job, though. Sir Yanin was more of a 'what do you want' and then either agreeing with it or not agreeing with it kind of person.

"Uh, my lord, if I may..." he began, staring at the door. What was the correct way to address divines, anyway? "We are not with the one summoning you, nor the ones hunting her. The swords aren't ours, either, we picked those up after coming in because the ... the frentits I guess already had them." What was he even doing? "We all were just nearby and were told there were guests still inside..." Fighting ... divines. "See if there was anyone left to help."
The divine certainly had much better hearing than could be expected, though it probably had little to knowledge what had ensued before it had been summoned, nor what had been said outside. Should he try to convince the divine to go home? Distract it? Would be impolite to just ask if it wouldn't prefer to leave without a fight?

He ... honestly had no idea. He felt vaguely faint.



The half-palanter had tailed the group, remaining stood by the entry to the hallway as the combatants took in their places, and Freagon, without further ado, promptly kicked the door in. She had felt the odd itch and heat crawling upon her skin, not pleasant, but stinging, scraping, like caustic sap. Were there really anyone mundane left in that room, it certainly didn't bode well to their sustained wellbeing.
Once to flood of divine energy unleashed by the opening door hit her, she actually jolted backwards as if dodging an invisible punch, teeth baring in a primordial callback to an ancestral inhuman beast, one reminiscent to the winged palanteran form. This expression of a cornered animal, brought upon her visage by expected, but still abrupt pain, disappeared quickly, replaced by a stern expression as she straightened her back, drew close to a wall, and listened to the exchange.
Deo'Irah had brought an angel of her own? Huh. Pity she could not speak Fermian; the deigan seemed quite displeased indeed, whether it was with the reveal of her secrets or something else was anyone non-Fermian-speaking's guess. Jordan tried to, a bit haltingly, explain the situation once the angel claimed they wanted naught but violence.

"Indeed; we are strangers to this house, to one another, and to whoever used to be in here before us. I, for one, am simply a healer and a seamstress - as a rule, I don't fight at all." Well, not unless she was absolutely cornered and there was no way for her to simply remove herself and, if possible, whoever was her patient at the time. "It was implied there would be injured here, was it not?" A deception in one count, and a lost cause in the case of all others, but an implication regardless. "Whom would you expect to draw in with such a call?"
A person bent on murder alone would be indifferent, would they not? Luring healers in just to mercilessly murder them was a strategy befitting of the true evil, lowest of the low, so if the angel's pause before admitting people had to die for him to be summoned wasn't but another feint and cruel deception, then surely he'd agree with this much?
"We were not welcomed most kindly, however." That much was true; the combat-ready lot might have been ready to fight, but the lesser divines were the ones to give one of them a good tossing around first. None of them were so kind as to have a nice little chat over a cup of tea and discuss what exactly went wrong. "I would hope that you might excuse those who, as a consequence, might a bit predisposed towards more violent solutions." Was it her duty to excuse the old nightwalker's bluntness? Perhaps not, but she had already left patients waiting to be here, and she had absolutely no interest in adding to the dead and injured.
And your mere presence, it burns,, as yourself and our new knight acquaintance certainly are aware of. That didn't particularly help matters, either.
"If it is not suffering and death you yearn for, what is it that you seek in staying here?"



Impatient, the human knight noted at Freagon's behavior, almost reflexively motioning Jordan (and indirectly, the dark one) to remove themselves from the scene.
These doors weren't particularly soundproof. If they were needed and could be useful, they could be called. Until then, it was more reasonable to spare them from being cooked alive while they waited for the need to engage. Anything that could take the four of them here out before they could even call out? Nothing they could do, anyway. If they were wise, they'd just jump from the window, evacuate the town, and find whatever Deo'iel they could to sort the divine out, if it didn't feel like leaving Reniam on its own. The same went for the two waiting by the end of the corridor, besides the differing exit route.
And if they were somehow, against all odds, severely injured, but not killed? Better to have someone with enough strength left to drag them out, if the place really teemed with divine energy.
The effect from Freagon kicking the door open was not quite as immediate as he had anticipated. Perhaps it had not been long enough, was less immediately obvious than he'd thought, the divine was sinking so much of it into its deception that it accumulated only gradually, or Deo'Irah had misjudged. Fire - warm, bright, but not burning the floor. Not natural. Hostages? Archangel? He'd read about them, but meeting one had, until now, remained vastly unlikely.

Everything could be a lie.

The six wings were unmistakable, but much like the fire, and the hostages, it could be naught but a glamourous feat of magic. Freagon had tossed a silver coin at one of the hostages to confirm the last item. Clever, but aside of confirming that there was no one in that spot to save, maybe not overly conductive for making a plan of action.
It was, indubitably, much more probable that it was a thalk pretending to be an archangel, hostages, and a wall of fire than a Melenian, only having one sacrifice to give - two, if surrendering herself to the ritual was plausible, three or more only if there was someone entirely accounted for -, wounded, half-mad with piaan, managing to successfully summon one of the most powerful divines short of a full god.
The fire, if it wasn't vastly more potent than that of a furnace, could be passed without harm; the lightning, if more than a vision, could be fatal if not interrupted. Care to throw a handful of coins at the angel to see if his wings are real? That was unfortunately wont to be interpreted as beginning of an assault. He could figure as much.
The angel was yelling. "Your own angel slaves?" Based on Deo'Irah's response, that was her, and she referred to the entity she had evidently been hosting as a friend. Necromancer and a summoner?
Unlike the Melenian, the only one - if what the deigan claimed about her and the divine's relationship was accurate - Deo'Irah had been harming with her choice to bring angels to this place was herself. Even with the Melenian, the whole shitshow could have been averted simply by the other guests not immediately acting upon the information. If there was ever a case to demonstrate why both summoning and vigilantism were illegal, that was probably it...
For the sake of everyone, he hoped Deo'Irah would be far more careful with her arts than that.

"You expect me to believe anything you say?" That was, ultimately, mutual. It had brought them there with a lie, and persisted the deception even now. Even its very kind remained suspect. Ironically, it would probably just as easy for an archangel to pretend to be a thalk, so even if it claimed to drop its disguise, it could to the opposite. Lies upon lies upon lies.
Curiously, either it wasn't able to tell him and Freagon apart by voice, or it failed to differentiate silver from sartal in spite of their vastly different magical properties.
Even as Jordan and the half-palanter took turns in trying to explain the situation, perhaps to placate the divine and find amicable solution, time was ticking - now truly ticking, ever since Freagon had made the move. If it was a thalk in disguise, ten seconds of coordinated combat, even up close, was hardly comparable to the accumulated exposure standing around for, by now, closing in for a minute and a half. Opening the door, aware of the apparent wall of flames right behind it, and then proceeding to talk was the worst combination of both options possible.
Yanin himself didn't feel the more obvious effects of the divine energy - yet. But he was also not magically exhausted before entering the room, and mages were usually a bit more attuned to picking things up like that. He was, for all intents and purposes, more or less average for humans.
It didn't escape his attention that Lhirinthyl covertly downed something. Piaan? Too much to endure without? Expecting a fight?
If they decided to fight, about two seconds of the opposing magic being disrupted and the glamours dropped would be enough. It was unfortunate that they had no meaningful, mutually agreed for way to coordinate.

For all their repeated insistences that they needed to hurry, the others always seemed to talk too much. He hadn't had the time to interject - it was at this moment that Madara finished speaking. He'd give it another half a minute - enough for the angel to reply. After that - presuming the divine didn't take offense to the others and attack -, he only really had one question of his own. Would probably initiate the fight immediately if it didn't comply ... but time would run out either way, and if they had to fight, it was better to do so before their ability to do so degraded too much.

Freagon looked and listened. He examined the archangel posturing at him and Irah. He scanned the room visually back and forth, even peeked behind the open door into the corner that would otherwise be hidden when standing in the doorway through the crack between it and the door frame. He looked as much and as hard as he could without moving from the spot or otherwise making what he was doing too obvious.
Much to his annoyance he did not see anything that might suggest where their quarry actually was, or he would have simply thrown a dagger at it and been done with it. He still had three rodlin remaining in his left hand that he could throw to check, but doing so would be overt enough to potentially prompt the divine to act. It had not exactly reacted well to him throwing the first coin, after all – at least he assumed that was why it had reiterated its command for them to stop – , so he would much prefer to spend an action with a potentially hostile response confirming where the divine was, rather than where it was not. The obvious thing to do would be to throw a coin at the archangel, which was obviously an illusion; Freagon had enough experience with archangels to know that this was not one. He was confident that throwing the coin would not end well, and a strong suspicion that wherever the real divine was, it was not there, but likely as far from that spot as possible. All it would accomplish was ensure that they knew that the divine was not there, and that the divine knew that they knew, which would escalate things.
With how dangerous the divine energy in the air was, it was easy to forget that divine taint was not the only threat of thalks. All of the dense energy filling the air here was a weapon for the creature to wield, fuel for its magic and nourishment for its strength.

Instead of throwing coins, Freagon busied himself with – as casually, idly and accidentally as he could manage to make it look – hold his sword so that its blade rested within the wall of fire meant to stop them from entering. He immediately noticed that the flames were not reacting to the obstruction, but seemed to flow exactly as they had before, seemingly passing through the metal rather than flowing around it. More importantly, the blood that still stained the blade did not react to the fire; there was no smoke, no sizzling, no signs of the blood being cooked. The flames were just for show, it seemed, and could be walked through safely.
He clenched his jaw inside the helmet and refocused his attention on the archangel. He knew he could advance and attack; now he just needed to know where to advance toward, and where to strike.

During all of his looking, Freagon also listened to the conversation taking place, taking in every word spoken and putting it aside for later consideration. He did not even flinch when the divine accused them of having an angel among them, nor did he react in the least when Irah – in Fermian, though that did not stop him from understanding – more-or-less confessed that she was the one who had brought it. From what she was saying, and the fact that there was no one among them that resembled an angel, a wraith or a ghoul, he guessed that Irah had let the angel possess her. He also guessed that the hostile divine had just banished that angel.
Indiscernible behind the visor of his helmet, this did make him furrow his brow a little. The first thing he wondered was how long Irah had been possessed by this angel of hers, as he was fairly confident that she had not summoned it in his presence, at least, so it must have been before they all met here. Then he wondered what kind of angel it had been, only for his thoughts to turn to how she had seemed to call upon Reina's favor to heal Jaelnec earlier. What were the chances that she was an elementalist, a summoner and a Favored One of Reina? Not high, he would wager. It was much more likely that the prayer had been for show, and it was actually her angel doing the healing. If that was true, there were only several kinds of angel capable of that kind of magic, all of which were greater divines. The thalk – which he still suspected this of being – was only a lesser divine. It must have taken a significant chunk of its power to get rid of Irah's angel, which meant that doing so had been very important to it. Why? Because it was afraid of another angel being present and able to see through its illusions?
It was possible. Likely, even. But its reaction to seeing Irah and its choice of words made him hesitant to assume that was the only reason. “Angel slaves,” it had said, and it had gotten furious. It had also called them “villains,” whatever that meant.
Was all of that part of its deception? It could be.

In the next room over, Jordan and Nabi would find that hiding there and closing the door behind them did indeed mean that they were not enveloped in divine energy. They were spared the accumulation of divine taint in there and were, at least relatively speaking, quite safe in there.
The archangel seemed entirely taken aback by suddenly hearing Jordan's voice from over there, and for just an instant panic flashed across its face before it regained its composure. Freagon saw, and pondered what that meant. His first thought was that the real body of the divine might be over there, with them... but he quickly dismissed that idea just from the fact that the archangel was reacting to things that could only be seen, and all the divine energy was definitely coming from this room, not the other one. The divine was here, no doubt about it. Why then?
It was not too hard to guess, he figured: its entire strategy seemed to be based on simply distracting and delaying them with its theatrics and illusions for as long as it could while the divine taint did its cruel work on them. Someone speaking from a place not exposed to that energy meant that no amount of stalling was going to secure its victory, at least not completely. It meant that it had to change its plans... which he figured might mean that it would go on the offensive.
But curiously it did not. It simply listened, seeming surprised and confused. He also noticed that while the visual of the fire in front of him and the woman and child by the bed were still there, the woman's sobbing had gone silent, the fire was no longer crackling and he did not feel any heat coming off it anymore. It's distracted. Good. That means it'll make mistakes and its illusion will crack.

Out by the entry to the hallway, Jaelnec flinched at the feeling of divine taint starting to seep into him, though he did not react with the surprise or evasive action Madara had, though he could easily sympathize as to why she would react that way. It was far from the first time he had felt divine taint, however – in fact he had felt it as recently as just moments ago, when Irah had healed him – , but one never quite got used to how it felt, let alone the grim awareness of what would happen if you accumulated too much. If anything, he was quite impressed with how swiftly Madara had reacted and how quickly she had regained her composure.
Back in the room, the archangel seemed less surprised to hear Madara speak – she was within its domain, after all – but attentive nevertheless. It actually seemed to physically shrink a little when it was asked who it expected to draw in with the sound of a sobbing woman, only for the image of the woman and child by the bed to instantly wink out of existence.
Freagon frowned. Too bad. Less illusions means it can concentrate better on what is left.
He also noticed, quite concerningly, that the golden sword that had been hanging threateningly over the child did not vanish along with them. It remained suspended in mid-air where it was, though it slowly seemed to change its alignment until its tip was pointed straight at him. He resisted the impulse to throw a coin at the sword to check whether it was real. Things were happening, it seemed.

What really seemed to coax a reaction out of the creature was Madara's final question: “If it is not suffering and death you yearn for, what is it that you seek in staying here?”
The archangel blinked several times rapidly, its mouth opening and closing without sound for for a second, before its shoulders slumped. “I... I...”
Freagon blinked and tightened the grip on his sword as he instantly noticed that something was odd. He – as well as Irah, Lhirin, Madara and Jaelnec – felt the sensation of divine taint accumulation suddenly diminish to a mere fraction of what it had been before; still present, but no longer an immediate threat. The wall of fire and the hovering sword both also faded away, and a faint shimmer, like a haze, seemed to hang over the entirety of the bedroom with the divine in it.
“I am supposed to do something,” the archangel said emphatically, a hint of desperation in its voice. “I am here for a reason. I must be. But she is gone, so she cannot tell me what to do. I wanted to...” It faltered. “I do not know why I am here.”

Deo’Irah had taken a moment to attempt to compose herself, her hands reflexively coming together and fingers steepling together as she took a deep breath in. The ocean of her soul was furious, roiling with a genuine moral affront–but with each breath she stilled its turbulence and regained control of her wits. The outburst was done, now–the social consequences were inevitable. She would pay them no mind for the moment and assess the situation depending on the outcome of current events. Sir Yanin, of course, took the position of the leader. He reminded her of Jahniv--though less effective, thanks to the gift of telepathy… reticent with his words, though each word was assessed to be as impactful as possible. Jordan and Nabissistra had wisely taken refuge in the other room–though she was more worried about Jordan than the clearly magically-trained Nabi. Divine energy parasitised Magical energy, after all–and those with more of it could withstand more accumulation of the taint.

It was Madara that most got her attention as she listened to her companions while reining her anger in–Irah missed entirely her initial reaction to the divine energy, her focus so single-minded in the moment, but the questions the half-Palanter asked might as well have been plucked from Deo’Irah’s mind, for they pressed upon the weakness she had noted earlier: why?.

Then she felt the absence of what felt only a fairly mild concentration of divine energy to her–but her resistance to divine energy was considerable, and the others must have been feeling far worse than she. The Thalk, as she was utterly convinced that was what it was, had abated its power somewhat as it pondered Madara’s words–and that was the perfect opportunity to discern more precisely what motivated this divine. That was the trick with divines, typically: they were mortals once, skewed towards the most influential aspect of their personality. Thalks were, indeed, deceitful by nature–but a Thalk of Reina would act very differently to a Thalk of Rilon.

“Your summoner, Feevesha…” Deo’Irah began, switching back to Rodorian now that her focus had returned. She took a moment to audibly exhale through her nose, her expression shifting more towards one of sympathy than of her previous rage. It crossed her mind that this could, indeed, be a part of the deception–but the vacillating quality of the illusions, the genuine moment of confusion, and the diminishing of its aura… Well. They were as close to an olive branch as one could get with a Thalk, she reckoned–and Sir Freagon seemed quite capable of slaying the thing where it stood should the tables turn.

”... she brought up the fact that she was a summoner in order to aid the townsfolk here. Bandits have taken the town’s healer, and she wanted to help recover him as there are wounded nearby. It was then that the witch-hunters turned on her, cretins that they are…” Irah finished, her rage flaring in a seething exhortation of cold fury as she all-but spat the term “witch-hunters”.

“May I ask… which deity do you serve? How would you like to be addressed?” she offered, laying bare her palms from their previous position in a gesture of what she hoped would be received as peace. With the divine energy having abated some of the palpable tension seemed to have melted away too, though the gentle listing of the sword towards Freagon was something that did not escape Irah’s attention either–they would still have to tread carefully. There was, Irah saw, a narrow path that served everyone’s interests: if, indeed, it could be convinced that its purpose was aligned with theirs, they would gain a truly formidable ally in their upcoming task. It would also be a fitting send-off for Feevesha, whose noble impulse to help had been misinterpreted by the witch-hunters… if she could not live to see it through herself, Deo’Irah would see it done herself. She made to herself a brief and silent vow of that, her focus renewed and will steeled.

The archangel's eyes widened in surprise when Irah spoke the Melenian summoner's name, only to immediately narrow suspiciously. If these people were indeed strangers to this place and just happened to be nearby, how would they know her name? Surely they would not have had time to hear and memorize information irrelevant to their goal if they were truly just here to help and look for wounded. If saving lives was what they were her for, one would think they would have rushed to the rescue as soon as they knew that they were at stake. They knew more than they logically should by the explanation they had given, it figured.
But that was not all: Irah revealed that she knew even more, which further called into question the truth of what the situation really was. Feevesha had revealed the fact that she was familiar with summoning magic because she wanted to chase down these bandits, she claimed? If this was true, it would make much more sense for these people to have been among those Feevesha had told than them having heard about it after the fact. At best they could have simply stood by while these witch-hunters tried to kill Feevesha, at worst they were aligned with the murderers. Irah did seem to react very strongly and negatively when she mentioned the witch-hunters, but emotions could be faked. And the iriao she had brought here? Either the witch-hunters were indeed hypocrites, or she had simply kept it secret somehow. Being possessed by a divine was hardly obvious to anyone without keen magical senses, after all.

But even as it became more and more guarded during this thought process, it then recalled the conversations it had overheard before they entered the room, before they would have known it was listening. In among their strategic considerations, they had mentioned wanting to pursue bandits themselves and expressed some urgency in doing so, which seemed to suggest that part was true, at least. And they had talked about the possibility and importance of saving anyone in the room... and Irah had expressed both a desire to resolve things with words and a preference for things not to escalate to the point of killing each other.
Its stance relaxed somewhat, and the lightning crawling along its arms waned and disappeared. It was still odd that they knew what they did, but there had been enough time from it sensing the iriao approaching the exterior of this place for them to be told. It would not have expected them to receive such details in a moment of urgency, but stranger things had happened. It was willing to believe that this woman, at least, did not mean to harm it.

“None,” it said in response to Irah's question, its voice lowered to a much more normal speaking volume now and its tone softer. “I once served the Lord That Glitters, but now I am Fallen. Feevesha is... was...” It stopped itself and shook its head. “Feevesha called me 'Caleb'. You can do the same, if you need to.”
Its eyes narrowed once again. “These bandits are the same that you mean to pursue?”

Irah’s expression immediately softened upon the mention of having Fallen, her features softening into a pale imitation of the resplendently beautiful sadness she knew from another divine’s face, a pang of empathy rippling across her being. The poor thing–she wondered when, precisely, it had fallen. Before Feveesha knew it? During? After? With just how much the sadness had struck it… she would not be surprised if it was during, and Feveesha had been one of the few sources of power available to it. Perhaps the only source. Irah wondered precisely how it had come to be fully summoned at all–surely, given its reaction, it would not have wanted her to perish? She could feel a certain amount of suspicion in it still, though, and she would have to temper her advances carefully–Thalks were wily, and she could not be too hasty with her words or risk the fragile truce. She took a moment to recall the information presented to her with a deep breath, letting her hands drop down to her sides.

“I believe so, though... The Lady Bor told us that she’d been trying to convince some of her guests–Feevesha included–to help save the town’s healer. One of her guards mentioned the attack was last night, and before we came to the manor here we tended to some wounded in the Fadewatcher station nearby–I assumed it was the same bandits, though I admit that I am uncertain of the details. The alarm bells went off in the Manor, we rushed over and were apprised of the situation, and the rest you know.” Deo’Irah began, turning for a quick moment to Yanin, Freagon, and then Lhirin in order to query whether she’d missed any other information.

”We mean to ensure the safety of the healer and return him hale and whole. I… am sorry for your loss, Caleb. I did not know Feevesha, but she was noble enough to risk herself to help… and though she has now paid the ultimate price, we owe it to her memory to ensure her last wishes are done. I cannot speak for everyone… but I am of the opinion that now you are here, it would be an affront to her life to simply return you from whence you came. So long as you can remain here without harming the innocent, there is no reason at all to harm you.” Irah spoke, her voice filled with both melancholy and sympathy. She took a brief moment to take stock of the situation, looking over to her newfound allies and her old companion with a brief glance. The expression on her face was not… pleading, exactly, but sombre and determined. Many more thoughts crossed her mind as she looked at the illusory Archangel, but most prominently that the charade truly was not necessary anymore. Now that this Fallen angel was untethered, each expenditure of energy was precious–and even though it would be advantageous were they to try and slay it, Irah was not willing to compromise how she felt for a base (though effective) tactic at its expense, when it had at least been willing to speak with them.

“I am Deo’Irah, and I am sorry we meet in these circumstances. May we see your true form? These illusions must be taxing your limited energy, if you have Fallen–I would not want you to overextend. By all means hide your location, you must be cautious, but… I have not the magical energy to lend you strength at the moment. Summoning an Iriao is not an inexpensive feat…” Irah smiled, her voice softening as well. The others, in their caution, might have objections–reasonable ones, no doubt, given their inputs thus far… but an unmoored divine, she wagered, would feel significantly more at ease with someone unequivocally sympathetic towards them and willing to help them, well, live. Ease in this divine was what everyone wanted, even if some wanted to use that ease to other ends–and Irah hoped that the earnest sincerity she had displayed was enough for them to forestall their more violent impulses. The divine could certainly help with the bandits, and depending on its personality… well, a fully summoned divine was a very powerful ally. Deo’Irah would not be opposed to adding another divine to her retinue of confidantes, conspirators, and comrades if they proved their worth, and their values aligned with hers.

Freagon met Irah's gaze both times she looked at him, but did not say anything. As far as he was concerned, things were going surprisingly well. Just the fact that the divine had decreased the concentration of divine energy was a victory from his perspective, and a necessary one at that; had that not happened, he would have started aggressively searching for and trying to destroy the divine by now. She was still talking an awful lot in his opinion, but it seemed as though things were less urgent now, which made it easier to tolerate.
Despite his satisfaction with how successful their efforts to pacify the divine seemed to be, Freagon kept his sword in hand. It was going well, but the divine seemed paranoid, angry... vengeful. He had a feeling that one wrong word could still set it off and necessitate battle, and without knowing the full context it was difficult to guess what might trigger its ire.

When Irah mentioned how they owed Feevesha's memory to fulfill her last wishes, the archangel's eyes hardened, its fingers curled into fists and its upper lip withdrew just slightly to show a hint of teeth. It was a clear expression of anger, to the point where the nightwalker raised his sword just a little and leaned forward a bit, putting his weight on his front foot, ready to rush to action. But then, when she went on to talk about how it would be an affront to Feevesha's life to return Caleb now, its eyes went wide, its mouth fell open and its expression turned to surprise.
Caleb held out his hands in front of him, palms upturned and fingers unfurled, and lowered his head to stare at them. It seemed transfixed by the sight, to the point where it seemed questionable whether it was even listening to what Irah was saying anymore.

Only once Irah finished speaking did the angel let his hands fall back down, where they hang limply by his sides. He raised his gaze to look at Irah, staring at her intently, almost as if trying to look into her very soul... only for his lips to part and show teeth again, but this time in a smile rather than a scowl.
And then he was gone. In the blink of an eye the archangel vanished, and with it both the strange haze that had hung over the room and the last vestiges of divine energy in the air also faded. Suddenly the room looked quite different from before, with the trail of blood that had lead to the door now being revealed to continue inside. There was blood all over the floor – a highly worrying amount of blood – going back and forth across the room several times, from the table to the bed and back again, and finally to the middle of the room, where a thin leather-bound book lay in a puddle of blood. By the bed – which was also lightly bloodstained and unmade – was an open backpack lying on its side, with various travel supplies scattered across the floor around it. By the table to their left a couple of chairs now seemed to have been knocked over, and on top of the table itself were a scattering of papers and writing utensils. These, too, were smeared with bloody handprints.
Despite all the blood, there were no bodies to be seen anywhere.

And tugged into the far corner to their left, the southeastern corner of the room, behind the table and relatively near the window, stood a figure that had not been there a moment ago. It was a tall, broad figure – taller than even Yanin – wrapped in a loose dark-gray garment not unlike a monk's robe, with sleeves so long that they hid the hands and a hood that almost hid its face, but not quite.
What took Freagon aback slightly was exactly the face. He had seen plenty of thalks – and this was indeed a thalk – but he had never seen one with a face like this one. Rather than the normal visage resembling that of a human skull, this one had a lower half that extended into something like a short animalistic muzzle, albeit still without lips and with the dagger-like teeth of a thalk, and each of its glowing green eyes was split by a vertical pupil.
Freagon's eye narrowed. Is it... trying to look more like a Melenian?
“Very well,” the creature said, and though its appearance was different it still spoke in Caleb's voice, and still in True Words. “I hope we will not regret this, Deo'irah, but here I am, in the flesh I was given. No more illusions. At your mercy.”

---

It was, at first, a tense, but swift affair, the opening of the doors into the hall, the shift to the next set as he followed behind the others, eyes wide and almost manic as he scanned their surroundings. Then the Knight of the Will forcefully entered the true unknown and what was perhaps the most dangerous sequence of moments unfolded. Filtering into the space, but staying behind those who led for the most part, the deigan mage continued to scan, hand on the hilt of his runeblade.

The sight of the supposed Archangel made his eyes twitch into a briefly narrowed position, before widening again as he took in every little detail. The 'hostages,' how the coin fell through part of one with no reaction, the flames at the edge of the room, and the jumpy--or perhaps simply angry--response of the divine. As Freagon beckoned Irah to speak, Lhirin noted each of the angel's reactions and let them sift through his mind. He noticed as the images and sensations from the room shifted. No heat from the flames. No smoke either--the smoke was really the first thing he'd noticed. Even if it were divine magic, it was likely to burn or affect the environs to some degree...and it simply wasn't. There were no burn marks, no strange interactions between the flames and the materials of the manse at all, in fact.

Then, as Irah spoke with the divine--even after her brief outburst, during which he downed a vial of piaan--he noticed things calming down. From some distance behind him he heard the other woman call out...the non-combatant. Her words seemed to give them time, buy Irah a moment to calm down, and give the Angel something to chew on.

Lhirin, his movements hidden behind Freagon and Irah's bodies, began the somatic workings of a spell even as he barely whispered words in the arcane language. However, before he'd gotten even a quarter of the way through, he realized things were deescalating. He ceased immediately, not wanting to worsen the situation. It was in that moment where his focus waned that the unpleasant pressure and pain between his eyes caused by the piaan faded and was swiftly followed by a sense of lightness and distance. For Lhirin, quick witted as he was and used to the effects, it gave him several instants to see things clearly even before the others perhaps registered that the Thalk was afraid. Yes, it was a divine, it was dangerous, perhaps moreso due to it being scared, but it was also vulnerable in a way that he'd not have expected.

Typically divines had enough power that worrying about a small group of mundanes--even ones as competent as them--was not something that would necessarily inspire something like fear. This impression was reinforced as more information was exchanged between Irah and the Thalk. It became clear even as a pleasant numbness tingled its way through his body, followed by a burst of euphoria that made him grin for a few moments...grin like a madman. He largely ignored the expression on his face, his mind slightly slowed by the shifting emotions and sensations of the piaan high.

He swallowed as a sense of contentment finally settled throughout him, even as it was joined by a powerful burst of magical energy refilling--and somewhat overfilling--his body and soul. He grit his teeth, clamping down on the power even as it tried to spill beyond his vessel. He didn't let it. Lhirin may not have had the same degree of intense control as Irah or some other Necromancer, but he'd done a great deal of training on controlling his own energies...and further he'd practiced what he could of the Necromancer's art without truly altering the innate impression that his soul gave off. It was not enough to give him the edge that it gave Irah, but it was enough for him to suppress what would have been the intense impression of magical energy as the piaan took full effect. He noticed the slight shift in his senses as well as sounds became sharper, smells and taste more nuanced, while light became brighter and somehow more colorful.

While he could handle many of piaan's admittedly pleasant side-effects, one that he struggled with for a moment was the sense of strength and heady power that came with it. He took a single step forward before the situation had fully deescalated, but he moved no further, catching himself before he could move further or take any foolish actions.

It was, ultimately, both a relief and a disappointment when the illusions fully fell away and revealed the room in truth. The blood splattered almost everywhere was...not unsettling, not even unpleasant, just macabre. Evidence of severe physical trauma and--of course--death. There were, strangely, no bodies and the Fallen Thalk was...oddly diminutive. Not in size, but in posture, its form curled up as small as possible in the corner.

Pushed on by the heady power of piaan and his general lack of social awareness, Lhirin finally moved as the situation became one of tenuous peace--not that he entirely realized it was tenuous at all. Stepping past Irah...and then Freagon, Lhirin moved past the threshold of the room even as he sheathed his runeblade.

Unbothered by the blood, his manner intense, but devoid of threat, Lhirin's silver eyes only briefly acknowledged the fallen divine before flitting to the leatherbound book on the ground. Reaching it, he bent to retrieve it from the ground before a thought stopped him in his tracks.

"Ah," he exhaled, his silver eyes lifting from the book to slide across the room to meet the eyes of the divine without a shred of fear or trepidation. "May I?" Lhirin inquired, his tone inquisitive, his eyes darting back to the book, then to Caleb once more to indicate the subject of his query.

There was a pause after her words, dense, nigh tangible. It sought for an answer; though she could not see its expression from her vantage point - if there even was one to be seen among all the glamour -, she could almost feel it reach the conclusion even before it voiced it. It didn't know. And simply as that, the burning sensation threatening to cook her inside out was reduced to almost nothing.
Feveesha mustn't have had the time to tell it. The most obvious reason to call upon a more potent ally would, of course, have been as simple as "save me", though less common motives wouldn't have been unheard of. In any case, it was now too late for the former, alas. Their new acquaintance would need to find a new purpose in life.

"Thank you for easing the burden on us." She figured it was safe enough assumption that if it knew enough to withdraw it, it was more than enough well aware what effect divine energy had on mundane life. It was safe information. And by all means, she was quite relieved she had less divine energy to endure.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly,though she didn't immediately move from her position as Irah, now more composed, took over the talking once more. For a while, she simply listened, absently brushing off invisible motes of dust from her shoulder.



The human knight's helmet was about as impassionate as could be expected as the man behind the visor observed the reflections of the illusions being dropped, one by one, and - as claimed by Madara, who seemed to have more keen magical senses than him - the angel withdrawing its divine influence from them.
That alleviated, but did not wholly remove one problem. Even if it had opted out of passively wearing them down where they stood - for now -, it did not mean that the divine didn't continue to accumulate more energy for its own use. Time was still running out, merely slower.
This divine was fallen? Claimed to be so, at least. The fallen could drift from the forms and abilities they would ordinarily have had. Whether the ability to draw energy from the divine realm directly was dependent on the thalk having a connection to a deity or even more innate to their kind than that, Yanin didn't know. As far as he could reckon, it could go either way.

The question of whether the bandits were the same ones they had independently considered hunting down, however, was much simpler to answer.

"Indubitably," he affirmed, turning his head slightly. It was a small town; everyone Jordan or himself had spoken to had confirmed there was no other healer to speak of in Borstown, and both the resident Fadewatchers and Lady Bor's men had been rendered functionally inoperable - not that there had been many of the latter to begin with. Just three, one killed, one MIA, and one injured. "I saw the dead and was speaking with the locals before the the alarm rang. The bandits left both the manor and town defenseless and bleeding."
Not a wise situation to find yourself in when hosting opportunists of every ilk.
All the while, he was watching Freagon as keenly as he did anything else happening in the room, seeing him test out the flames and perform other, minute actions that could just as easily be precautions just in case as they could be indicators that he was still fully intent on remaining true to his words and trying to banish the angel as soon as any opportunity presented. The worst possibility wasn't that Yanin would need to fight the divine - it was having to deal with both Freagon and the divine concurrently, with unknown input from the others.

Thalks - if that was what it was, or had been - were known to be schemers, derived from people who had used others. Even now, it was entirely possible it was just trying to use them, somehow. It couldn't be fully trusted - but as far as the human knight knew, the same could be said for nearly anyone he met, even most of his allies. In that regard, it was hardly different from anyone else.
There was no telling what had lead it down whatever path it had taken in life - actual evil by nature, or unfortunate circumstance. Someone else in Yanin's place - born to a minor tyrant, a fearful mother who didn't have time to care, watching people covertly work to undermine one another and hiding behind smiles and courtesy, while having little ability to tell a true smile from a fake ... he did what he did because he thought it was right, despite everything. Maybe it was the few people he was relatively confident were actually good, and the hope that many others were, too, maybe it was, in some weird twist of fate, because he was an exceptional fighter but equally poor manipulator. If he was the opposite, a skilled negotiator with little ability to defend himself from physical threats?
Didn't really take that much for the average person to end up on the wrong side. Becoming an angel effectively erased your past. Could give 'Caleb' here the benefit of the doubt for now, especially since... If it, indeed, was fallen, what, if anything, would even be waiting for it back in the divine realm it came from.
Fuck it, could be a cruel and unusual punishment by itself.

Deo'Irah introduced herself, as Caleb had, and the illusions - presumably the final ones - were dropped. Irah's words seemed to confirm that a fallen thalk would indeed, not have the usual advantage of pouring in divine energy usually associated with their kind. Definite knowledge or conjecture?
"I concur with her; as long as I can remain reasonably confident you have caused no undue harm to anyone in these lands, there is no reason to detain or send you back."
It wasn't the only issue. There were always two or more sides to each matter, and even if Caleb behaved itself, the fallen angel's presence alone was wont to draw some unwanted attention. Lady Bor had sworn at the witch-hunters rather than blaming the Melenian. Could be a bit more sympathetic than most. He had absolutely no idea if any other villagers would be as open-minded, even if, strictly speaking, Deo'Irah and Lhirinthyl were the ones still alive committing all the crimes.
Not that the ones outside would have any knowledge of it yet - hopefully -, but they nevertheless needed to be more conservative with their knowledge, skill and illicit substances. Even if they could trust the ones in here, more people with some knowledge and the ability to discern minute discrepancies were bound to notice sooner or later, and even if he himself didn't see the worth in taking someone down for no good cause, but rather simply treated the illegality of the means as aggravating circumstance where true evil had been wantonly brought upon those undeserving, not everyone would bother, or even want to make the distinction.
"Being a divine in itself is not illegal, but it's only so far I can control the prejudices of other people. You might still want to disguise yourself once it's no longer just us." Might be as soon as leaving the manor. Only a few more things to ascertain.

Shifting both the silver sword and truncheon to his left hand and dropping them both to his side (not that he truly let go of his readiness to fight), he finally stepped out from his position behind the door and over the threshold, carefully avoiding the abundant blood and observing the trails and markings in the room, placing himself just ahead of Freagon.
If Caleb hadn't believed Jordan's words of the silver swords not belonging to them, then the presence of another sword and dagger on his person, as well as the complete absence of anywhere to store the surplus arms probably confirmed it.
"I am Sir Yanin Glade," he stated, simply. "Here's to hoping the day ends better than it began."

He knew one Melenian had entered - no corpse remained. One guest was still, technically, unaccounted for. The fallen thalk was tall enough for even Yanin to be barely more than chin-height; it more than likely required more than just one female Melenian, slight as they were, to shape its flesh - if self-sacrifice was indeed even an option. So by means of simple elimination, that's where the unaccounted-for guest should have gone.
Wouldn't any attire remain behind? Objects that obviously belonged to the final guest rather than Feveesha? Footprints or handprints that weren't shaped like Melenian paws (she definitely wouldn't have been carrying anyone bigger than her in, bleeding as heavily as she did, that much was certain), signs of struggle rather than just the felid rummaging through her own things. Just a confirmation or contradiction. Lady Vela Bor or her servants might know who it was, at least, but he still figured it deserved checking.
There was a rustle somewhere behind him, and Lhirinthyl attempted to brush past, evidently noticing the tattered book on the bed. He didn't get far before a gauntlet fell on his shoulder - somewhat ironically, not because Yanin was any more conscious of the fragility of their truce, but quite simply because the mage was trampling all over the scene he was still investigating.
"Wait," he noted to the deigan, and then, seemingly aimed at Caleb, even if his posture seemed to indicate he was still observing the room "Would you happen to know if any of the things in the room - other than the furniture - are not Feveesha's?"

“I concur with her; as long as I can remain reasonably confident you have caused no undue harm to anyone in these lands, there is no reason to detain or send you back,” Yanin said, which made Caleb tilt his head curiously and shift his glowing eyes to look in the direction of his voice.
“Undue?” he repeated, sounding somewhat confused. “Some men came before you, a couple with silver swords. They attacked me, so I killed them. And I summoned frentits into their bodies. In the other dead, too. I figured that since Feevesha had apparently already created wraiths, it would suit her plans to reinforce them with some ghouls. You decide whether that is undue.”

The thalk's gaze followed Yanin as he revealed himself, staring at him stiffly and coldly from his place huddled in the corner. He watched him very attentively and overtly, making no attempt at disguising his own continued wariness.
“I am Sir Yanin Glade,” the human knight stated, simply. “Here's to hoping the day ends better than it began.”
Again Caleb cocked his head, and though his face was not all that well-suited to making expressions or showing emotions, his shoulders sagged a little more, his knees bent a little, and his face turned to the floor at Yanin's feet. The fallen angel just stared at the bloodstained floor in silence.

“Would you happen to know if any of the things in the room - other than the furniture - are not Feveesha's?”
Caleb raised his head again to look at Yanin, then slowly, in a manner that seemed almost lethargic, swept his gaze back and forth across the room, scanning it without moving from the spot.
“Aside from the furniture, and the things you brought here,” he said after several seconds' worth of looking and contemplating, “were likely hers. I cannot be sure. I was not familiar with all of her possessions, and some of them...” He raised a hand – revealed as the long sleeve fell away to be quite large, with long fingers that were each tipped with a hooked claw, and clad in the same red skin as his face – and placed it palm-inward on his chest. “...may also be inside my body.”

Abruptly, with barely a movement for anyone to detect or react to, a flash of silver zipped through the air once again, originating from Freagon's left hand. A second rodlin was finally thrown, only this time it hit Caleb directly in the center of his forehead with an audible impact; so hard, in fact, that the thalk stumbled backward and crashed back-first into the wall behind him.
As the large coin hit the floor and rolled off somewhere, a drop of blood ran down Caleb's nose before dripping off the tip. Only one drop, though; the injury had healed long before a second drop of blood could escape.
“Not an illusion,” Freagon asserted dispassionately. “Had to be sure.”

It could not have been quite as simple as the fallen angel simply holing itself in, could it? Caleb here had managed to get itself involved before they arrived - a fair bit before they entered the building, judging by how long the illusion of the sobbing woman had been up.
"If it's impossible for you to stop someone you're certain is intent on killing you by other means, or escape, then killing them would generally count as self-defense, which is often considered excusable," Yanin recounted, seemingly impartial and simply stating facts as he apparently continued to observe the room. Usually. A divine - let alone a fallen angel or Caleb's kind- was less likely to be pardoned on the same grounds as a human. Unfortunate as it was, but the more you deviated from the ideal, the more predisposed against you people were likely to be.
A couple with silver swords - most likely the two witch-hunters he and the dark one had fought. It was quite likely it was Caleb's first time in Rodoria - and perhaps Feveesha's, if the carelessness of her revealing she was a summoner was anything to go by. It was lucky enough that the frentit-ghouls the fallen thalk had summoned met them rather than someone more vulnerable, and hence did only minor additional harm.
"How many ghouls did you create? In the future, it would best if no more were released - that, as a rule, won't be tolerated -, but for now, I am just trying to confirm the fates of everyone who was supposed to be in here, though I suspect I have already deduced." It was obvious enough for all but two of them, and inferrable for the latter.
It was possible items had been trapped within Caleb's newly formed body? Macabre, though it might explain how not even a scrap of fabric, a single finger- or footprint remained of the final guest. If they had entered the room first. And not attempted to fight Feveesha back as they were sacrificed. And not bled before being sacrificed themselves.
On the other hand, it was technically not even completely unthinkable the final guest had managed to flee before Lady Bor and her folks had gotten out, or hid somewhere else in the building. It was also exceedingly unlikely.
"Jordan, easterner, check the other rooms."

Freagon moved. In twentieth of a second, Yanin had - from a seemingly almost relaxed pose as he stood observing the room - tensed, angled the silver sword and truncheon toward Caleb and let go of the male deigan. In a tenth, the Viper's blade was out, moving into a guard toward Freagon as his eyes identified the flying object as a silver coin (not likely to be immediately lethal) and a half-step brought him into a balanced stance facing side towards both. In fifth of a second, while Caleb was still in the middle of beginning to stumble back, the human knight had halted himself, having fully expected the nightwalker to have used the coin as a distraction to make an opening to rush the divine before it could recover, but evidently not following up.
A couple seconds passed during which the fallen angel was crashing into a wall and the nightwalker stood still - whether because Yanin had reacted in a way he didn't expect or for some other reason, no one in the Realms had any damned way of knowing, before simply offering, “Not an illusion. Had to be sure.". Was that it, or was he just thinking on his feet?
"And you bloody couldn't figure out a way to test it that wasn't also an assault," the change in Yanin's voice subtler than could be anticipated. It wasn't really angrier as much as his speech was simply slightly faster, slightly louder, almost, but not quite snapping a reply.

Not even he was dumb enough to figure that someone, cornered and outnumbered, would just take a direct hit to the face and not assume it preceded going for a kill. Because he would assume that. He had, and the only reason he wasn't actually engaged at this point was because his reaction times were much better than average and he was presently not afraid for his life, so he actually had the presence of mind to process the absence of a follow-up.
It was still not even certain the same could be applied to Caleb, once it regained its footing.

Though Deo’Irah had not seen Lhirinthyl consume the piaan, something about the nature of his actions was… different, when next she observed her companion attempting to barge through Yanin in order to get a better look at what was going on in the room–she knew he’d go right for the book before he even indicated his interest… that alone wasn’t out of the ordinary–Lhirinthyl did not often consider the social consequences of his actions before he took them at the best of times, least of all when the prize of knowledge on offer was so tantalising… but something about his gait was energised and purposeful, whereas before she had noticed it was flagging–and she suspected that if she extended her magical senses out towards him she would confirm that he was suddenly replete with energy. Inconvenient timing, and wholly unnecessary, but she could not fault him for wanting to be prepared in case things went awry… in case this was a deception. It was… well, Irah hated to admit it to herself, but not a terrible course of action in principle. Trampling all over the scene that Sir Yanin was still observing, and potentially misconstruing his intent to Caleb (with whom their truce was only tentative still) was also certainly not out of character–he was very much like that anyway… Irah felt a sigh leave her lips that was not as disapproving as her internal monologue suggested, and she shot him a withering glare to compensate for the fact she was quite enamoured with his conviction and made a quick motion with her head to nudge him back–but Yanin’s gauntlet had already made quite plain his lack of permission to enter.

Caleb’s manner of speech was not unusual to Irah–she communed with angels directly fairly often, though usually not in the flesh… and not with other people. And the other people that she did meet in the presence of Kahr’wai’iel–also a fully summoned divine–spoke the same language that she did, and thus they all heard it as Fermian. There was something a little jarring about hearing a question asked in Rodorian and answered, to her ears, in Fermian–but it made sense in her mind and she was able to brush it off with little consequence. What interested her most was how Caleb answered the questions, the pauses he took, the tone of voice that he spoke in. It was… not easy to tell, with a Thalk’s face and True Words being used, but…

Irah had been so focused and the movement of Freagon’s throw so blindingly fast that she only saw the glint of silver in the air and heard the crash of its force sending Caleb back into the wall as he was hit squarely in the forehead. Her eyes opened wide with shock, at the sheer provocativeness if nothing else, and she whipped around to look at the source of the action as soon as Freagon began speaking and confirmed that he was the one that did it.

“By Rilon’s spite, you’re an arse. What were you thinking?!” Deo’Irah began, echoing Sir Yanin’s chastisement albeit with much more obvious anger. She turned her intense gaze towards him, once again roiling and seething with anger, but after a few seconds she exhaled sharply through her nose and took a measured intake of breath through her mouth.

“Your urge to confirm the presence of illusions is understandable, but your lack of decorum is not. Comport yourself better, and apologise to Caleb immediately.” she added, her voice taking on a note of the frosty fury that it had earlier, albeit to a much lesser degree. She quickly turned to look over at Caleb, her intensity becoming something much closer to concern as she appraised him–he’d healed already, of course, but she was more worried for his mental wellbeing than his physical safety. She knew from experience that Divines did not even need to be able to hear someone speak thanks to the power of True Words–simply intending for them to hear what you had to say was enough. It was something she’d done with Kinder before, working out what had happened to someone who’d been paralysed and had been unable to speak to get an account of events so as to assist with their healing. She did not speak out loud as she directed her thoughts out to Caleb, knowing that the intent of conveying her thoughts and feelings would be sufficient for him to understand:

“I am sorry, Caleb, for him–he… that was uncalled for. Please do not let it impact the progress we’ve made–I would hate for this to end in any more bloodshed, any more loss.” she offered, her lips turning down into a sad smile, reproachful and hopeful–but her eyes remained as intense as ever, and she could not stop herself from stealing angry glances at Freagon for his act of thuggery.

“How many ghouls did you create? In the future, it would best if no more were released – that, as a rule, won't be tolerated –, but for now, I am just trying to confirm the fates of everyone who was supposed to be in here, though I suspect I have already deduced.”
“Five. But...” Caleb answered Yanin's question. There was a brief pulse of divine energy in the air that Freagon, Irah and Lhirin would all feel, but it vanished as instantly as it began and lasted for but a fraction of a second. Immediately after, the thalk raised his hand and pointed to the east and a little toward the floor. “I sense a mundane in that direction, inside the building. I sensed it earlier, too. It did not attack, so I ignored it. I figured the wraiths and ghouls would find it sooner or later.”

Later, after Freagon had thrown his second rodlin and Yanin and Irah both had chastised him for it, Caleb used the time they spoke to get back on his feet, though he still seemed a little dazed.
Freagon merely listened to the words directed at him in silence, the visor of his helmet even more expressionless than the face behind it. Meanwhile his left hand moved at his waist, depositing the last two coins he had originally retrieved from his coinpurse back where they came from. His body-language did not change in the slightest, though he did lower his sword a bit further, dropping into a somewhat more passive stance.
“If I wanted to assault it,” he grumbled impatiently, “it would be dead.” As his left hand moved away from his coinpurse, Freagon snatched up the hilt of the dagger he had sheathed there and deftly brandished it so they could see, presenting its silver blade.
“Besides,” he added a second later, a dangerous coldness creeping into his voice, “it did try to kill us. Fair is fair. The fact that I made it move was an unexpected bonus.”
He very deliberately did not utter anything that could be interpreted as an apology.

“I am... fine,” Caleb hesitantly uttered as he awkwardly resumed the his stance from before, albeit seeming even more huddled now, as if trying his hardest to physically shrink away into the corner. His voice was trembling. He stared at Freagon with wide, brightly glowing eyes. He glanced at Irah for a second, questioningly, before returning to fix on the nightwalker. “I understand. I can... appreciate the candor.”

---

A gauntleted hand came down on his shoulder, his attention snapped over to its origin, arcane words on the tip of his tongue, magic at his fingertips, then he registered words and his reason took hold. Perhaps Irah might notice the implication of his poised fingers at his side and the way his lips parted, tongue almost moving, but most likely it would be impossible to read, especially as briefly as it was present. Nodding in response to sir Yanin's words, the deigan turned his gaze back to the room. Raking his eyes across the scene even as he reached out with his arcane senses to attempt to ascertain if there were any other details that the others may have missed.

While he waited for his mind to process anything from those senses, Lhirinthyl noticed something else entirely...something far more mundane--though its source was divine in nature. With his eyes locking on the once-thalk, 'Caleb,' Lhirin tilted his head, his wide eyes narrowing fractionally. He said nothing for a time, as others were speaking, instead he simply let his mind roil on the waves of euphoria and power that the piaan had provided him. Then three was a flash of silver movement. Lhirin's reaction was immediate, his hands raising slightly, only to lower as he processed what Freagon had done. Shaking his head, Lhirin let out a small set of noises 'tsk tsk,' in response. Even he knew better than to do something so brash and thoughtless. The irony of his thought was lost in him, of course and he was glad to see that the knight's actions did not resolve in further hostilities or the like.

As things calmed slightly, with Yanin and Irah essentially chastising the nightwalker, Lhirin circled back to his earlier thought and spoke up--his silver-eyed gaze falling once more on Caleb.

"Why do you appear so frightened?"

He asked, his heading tilting faintly, his tone curious even as his piercing gaze tried to ascertain the reason through the divine's body language alone.

Caleb shot Lhirin an incredulous look when he asked it why it appeared to be frightened. “Why? Because I am outnumbered and cornered, and now I have even lost what little power I had managed to accumulate by staying here.”
“Besides...” He pointed at Irah. “She is a summoner, and that man –” He moved his hand to first point at Freagon, only to then also point west, toward the bedroom next door. “– and someone in there, I have never sensed anything like them. Not to mention that his sword –” Again he pointed at Freagon. “– has a spirit in it. Destroy me if you want, but please do not trap me like that again.”

Irah’s look of anger melted away into a stunned look of genuine sorrow, her face crestfallen at Caleb’s words. She could not discount in her mind that this was potentially just a trick–Thalks would happily seek to divide and conquer alliances so as to improve their odds if they could help it… but she found herself in a position of trusting Caleb far more than she trusted Freagon, who clearly could have dealt with all of these threats alone and not batted an eye. Who’d been appraising them from the start, as best as she could tell. It did not fill her with confidence in his ability to work with others at all. The others… Sir Yanin especially seemed very competent, as did Madara. Jordan, Jaelnec, and Nabi had not gotten the chance to do much, but Irah could tell in the way that the stranger from afar moved and how she held herself that she was simply beset by inexperience with the type of foes they were dealing with and not wanting to make a terrible situation worse. Freagon alone stuck out as the one who did not fit in with them, and she struggled to clear that seed of doubt from her mind. She began to take careful steps into the room, glancing up at Sir Yanin as she did so in an implicit request for permission, before carefully moving herself around the various objects and stains on the floor. She did not get that far into the room, but got a little closer to Caleb and held her hands up, open-palmed, facing towards him as she spoke.

“The truth is, Caleb, that I am not much of a summoner at all. I know how to summon precisely two angels, and have no means of binding your will beyond diplomacy or persuasion. I seek to work in concert with angels, not to dominate them to my will and loose them against my enemies, as though you are nothing but tools.” Irah spoke far more softly than before, unable to keep the slightest hint of a quiver from her otherwise thus-far composed (well, controlled) voice.

“If anyone wishes to harm you, they will have to kill me. I meant what I said earlier: I would never enslave another soul. When I have rested, I will lend you what magical energy I can–and we can discuss our plans for what happens next.” she added, her voice regaining some of its usual steely composure as she straightened herself up and inhaled sharply, fighting back the barest hint of a tear from the corner of one of her eyes. She did not display the surprise on her face at the information Caleb had provided them with–namely, that the Sartal relic Sir Freagon carried with him had a spirit within it, and something within her squirmed uncomfortably. She was going to have to stick it out with him, then–she could not ignore the whispers of fate that surrounded him, nor the strangeness of his blade’s origins and its newly-revealed inhabitant. She did not relish the idea of spending more time around him, that much was certain, but her mind drifted back to poor Jaelnec. She could not leave him to Freagon’s devices, and wondered to herself if he was mistreating the lad in some way. Either way… nobody should have to travel with such an odious individual alone–she refused steadfastly to abandon Jaelnec to such a miserable fate. She also found herself bristling at the implications of his having concealed something as massive as a spirit inhabiting his Sartal blade–the deception irked her in ways that she could not (or, at least, did not) permit herself to think on too deeply lest she act rashly. Now was a time to mend fractured bonds rather than divide them further, if they were to save the town’s healer with a minimum of fuss.

Caleb kept staring warily at Freagon until Irah started getting closer, at which point his eyes started shifting between the two, though his stance seemed to relax a little as the deigan spoke, seemingly somewhat mollified by her words and demeanor. Freagon's stance relaxed the rest of the way, too, as he sheathed his dagger – he had not intended to use it, after all, he merely wanted to show them that the blade was silver so they knew he could have thrown it rather than a coin, had he really wanted to – and stepped further into the room, heading for the west corner or the room and thus away from the angel and toward the bed.
Divines, he thought bitterly, looking down at the still-bloodied sword in his hand. Their sharp senses were really bothersome under the best of circumstances, and had turned out quite problematic today in particular. It was one thing that Caleb had mentioned that there was something different about him – in truth he expected to feel the faint familiar tingle of one of the mages magically reading his soul any moment now – but chances were that the others were not going to respond well to being told that there was a spirit in his sword. It did not bode well for their prospect as future allies.

Arriving at the side of the bed, Freagon proceeded to reach out and wipe his blade on a relatively unsullied part of the otherwise ruined quilt, finally cleaning his sword so that he might put it away; he did not think he was going to need it anymore. But even as he did so, he clenched his teeth and had to stop himself from sighing audibly at the internal admonition he levied at himself: yes, news of the sword was likely going to be a point of conflict, but he had not exactly been at his most pleasant either. The whole debacle over him throwing the coin, and likely him just kicking down the door earlier as well... he knew that these people probably disliked him at this point, which – annoying though it was that people could not just be rational about such things – probably made them less inclined to keep working with him. He could have handled things differently: he could have apologized as Irah had demanded; he could have abstained from justifying him injuring the angel by pointing out that he could have killed it; he could have spent a few more seconds communicating with the others rather than acting on his own initiative without consulting them. He could, but... stuff like this was why he almost always worked alone. Why people did not like him.
Even now, as Irah poured her heart out trying to make peace with their divine quarry, all Freagon could think about was how the thalk was probably re-accumulating power with each word she spoke. His every instinct told him to cut things short; that the only way to negate the threat of this creature was by slaying it before it regained its strength. His fingers itched to put a dagger in its face, to sever its neck with his sword, to impale it and destroy its heart; anything to send its spirit back where it came from, where it was not a threat to anyone. Part of him insisted that he knew better, that these amateurs were going to get themselves killed unless he acted on his own to protect them. But he knew that they would not understand, let alone agree with him.
No one understood, which was why no one liked him, and most people hated him. He was not right; he was defective and broken. He had come to accept this decades ago, and had resolved to walk a lonely path through this life... until he met Jaelnec. The boy had changed things. For the sake of a future that might be, he had to find a way to make this work. It was not going to be easy, but Freagon had never shied away from a challenge before.

“Do not offer up your energy so willingly for my sake, and certainly not your life,” Caleb replied to Irah over in the corner, just as Freagon returned the now-clean Roct to its scabbard. “I may be Fallen, but I am still mostly a thalk; as long as I do not move, I can siphon nigh-limitless divine energy from the Neverrealm. And truth be told, I do not even want to be here.” Caleb cocked his head. “But if what you say is true... may I leave?”
Freagon kept listening in silence, and went to search for the couple of rodlin he had thrown from the floor.

"Five," the fallen angel had stated, which matched what he had witnessed earlier. Often the only way to figure out the truth from falsehood was to keep checking things, even those he already knew, to see if a discrepancy cropped up - so he could hopefully figure out who, or what, was unreliable, and whether it was on purpose.
The thalk volunteering that there was another mundane in the building was certainly interesting - if it was accurate, and not another go at subterfuge to get rid of them, then that would mean that Feveesha had sacrificed herself alone, and the last guest was indeed alive.
Jordan should know enough to expect traps, and he'd already told him to take the dark one along and go inspect all rooms. Faintly, whoever was paying attention might make out some muffled low speaking from the next room, and bit later, the door tugged open.

Irah appeared to be agitated at Freagon; the latter simply noted that he could have killed the thalk. Yanin had no doubts about it - at least if it were just the two of them. The human knight didn't intend to let him, at least not as long as the thalk cooperated. It was no coincidence that he had placed himself directly between Freagon and the divine, and was watching the nightwalker as much as the thalk, or even just observing the room.
The fact that the old had managed to get a projectile - even a nondirectional one he had already been holding prior to the incident - past him was an abject failure. It would have been much harder with a dagger, granted. The nightwalker would have had to draw it first, and unlike a coin for the purposes of testing illusions, it actually needed to be point-first to be effective at killing. It was still a single, fluid motion, but one that was about a tenth of a second longer - enough to be intercepted. It was even possible to somewhat reliably intercept arrows - provided that you could see the archer aiming, and it was roughly at you. And it was just one of them.
Yanin made a mental note to ask anyone else he might need to interrogate to, quite literally, take cover. Preferably behind at least solid wood. Or alternatively just fully remove Freagon from the room. If he decided to put himself at greater risk to help with his investigation, then that was prerogative as a knight and Fadewatcher. If Freagon decided to be unreliable, he could stay out of it.
Of course it was ready to kill us. Someone else had already tried, and you announced quite clearly that you will kill it.
Bafflingly - even to Yanin and his general social insensitivity - the male deigan asked why Caleb appeared afraid. Clearly, there were at least three individuals in the room who could swiftly send him back where he had come from; it was cornered.
Against expectations, something did come of the details the fallen thalk offered freely. There was a spirit in the sartal sword, and someone in the other room was ... strange? Couldn't be Jordan; enough of him being around mages and sensitive folks of all ilk for someone to have noticed something before. The dark one, then. Did Freagon really interfere because he suspected the fallen angel of further tricks, or was it because he knew the divine could tell something about him he didn't wish them to hear?

There was a creak somewhere behind him as Jordan (presumably with Nabi in tow), very carefully, checked what was behind the lone door in the opposite wall of the hallway, and seemingly not finding anything much out of order, looked into the room where his master, Freagon, Lhirinthyl and now Irah congregated, eyes flicking from the Viper's blade to Caleb. If Deo'Irah or someone else happened to look at him, then his expression was a vague mix of uncertainty and inquisitiveness.

Yanin made no move to stop the female deigan as she entered the room; she seemed to be taking appropriate amounts of care. Freagon showed no such consideration, but by this point, he was reasonably certain he had gleaned all that could be, so he mostly just continued to watch for signs of hostility.
"First floor, east wing; beware," he noted to the squire, and the younger human disappeared from sight, only for some more hurried talking to occur once he was back in the hall.
Two angels; an iriao and? And, her earlier assertion had been wrong - the ability to draw energy from the divine realms was innate to thalks, not achieved through the deity they served.

"Leave - for the Neverrealm?" he inquired. "What will await you there?" That was largely out of curiosity, not any fact-checking. He had, though, wondered if there was even a place for the fallen in the divine realms. Maybe the denizens of Neverrealm, at least, were a touch more tolerant. Couldn't be that bad if Caleb still wanted to be there rather than here, potential hostilities of those outside the manor notwithstanding. He took a couple steps, still with weapons brandished, though no longer in active guard, as he followed Freagon in his attempt to locate his two missing rodlin. "Can you also tell what kind of spirit?"

“Not yet,” Caleb replied when Yanin asked whether he intended to return to Drigall, “nor could you stop me if that had been my intent. Feevesha sacrificed herself to bring me here, and I will not waste the body she gave me by letting it turn to dust without doing anything worthwhile. I will return willingly to exile eventually, but not yet.”
The fallen, vaguely Melenian-like thalk seemed to pause at this, clearly had something more on his mind, but allowed himself to be distracted by Yanin asking about the spirit in Freagon's sword.
“A mundane,” he declared after just a moment's hesitation. “It feels... odd. Undead, yet not. Very powerful.”

With that out of the way, Caleb seemed to return to his previous question: “May I simply walk out of here? Leave this building, leave this... is this a town?” He glanced out the window next to him as if only now becoming aware that there was a world outside these walls. When he looked back, his eyes, sharp, wide and attentive, shifted rapidly from Freagon to Yanin, to Irah, to Freagon and back to Yanin. “You say you will not kill me if I do not cause undue harm and that you do not wish to use me as a slave or a tool. If so, if I tried to leave, would you stop me?”

Deo’Irah offered Caleb a solemn nod at his assertions; she would not stop him if he tried to leave, that much was true–but there were considerations and revelations to be had here yet. Pieces of the puzzle they’d not have been able to intuit–nor able to extract from the tight-lipped Freagon–had been willingly proffered by Caleb… and it would be a waste to not investigate such things already. She sighed internally, also chiding herself a little at how emotional she’d gotten–she could not deny that Freagon’s logic had been sound, that much was true, but she was used to receiving that sort of information from Lhirin (who cooperated with her freely–Freagon was far too reticent and wilful to possibly be of the same use) and factoring those things in more freely. Proceeding from here was going to be very tenuous indeed, especially with Lady Bor and her entourage still waiting outside.

“I will not stop you, no. Though I would urge that you disguise yourself or otherwise make yourself unseen and leave with us–the owner of this house and her entourage are stationed outside, awaiting the results of our efforts. It would be… challenging to explain to her and the assembled townsfolk what precisely has happened here, especially so soon after the bandit attack. They are scared and in a tremendous amount of pain–seeing you as you are would only serve to incite further hurt in these beleaguered people… not that I am suggesting that their apprehension is right, merely that it is real and we must consider it.” Irah began, before turning to Sir Yanin (still fairly close to her) and taking a second or two to think before speaking again. He had proven meticulous with numbers, consistently checked what they thought they knew, and had a keen eye for detail–she had revealed enough to indict herself already, should he wish to take action against her, but he seemed quite eminently sensible. With only the four of them in the room and Lhirin already knowing her secrets… well, she had little to lose at this point. She figured that she might as well be honest.

“A swaigh, or Angel of Fear, is my second. I sense the question hangs in your mind. You might have been suspect of my extraordinary senses earlier, too, but it should be obvious in retrospect that those senses were Kinder’s, the iriao, rather than my own… but you would be correct in assuming that I am also learned in necromancy. More specifically in freeing spirits afflicted by undeath from their torment on this plane, not as some crude profaner of dead flesh. I offer this information knowing full well the danger of doing so, especially after what happened here, but you have proven sensible and keen. I trust that you will appreciate having a better grasp on my capabilities for what is to come, and we will leave it at that.” she spoke, quieting her voice considerably (certainly low enough for none outside the room to risk overhearing)–she intended primarily for Sir Yanin to hear it, though she was certain Freagon would too–and Caleb, most definitely. It was a risk, to be certain, but… if their temporary alliance were to end after the bandits had been apprehended and the healer returned, she and Lhirin could part ways with them and head towards Anaxim Forest as had been their loose idea beforehand, no worse for wear.

She then looked towards Sir Freagon, something in her expression having changed from the cold fury of before, now more akin to the embers of curiosity mixed with apprehension.

“... I should examine your soul now. You know now that my senses are keen enough to discern plenty… but I would rather you offer it freely than perpetuate this escalation of hostilities we have found ourselves in. May we talk before we head off to find the bandits?” she asked, her tone soft and only just verging on reproachful. A tiny part of her thought it might be wise to offer an apology, for things getting as out of hand as they had, but her pride and her anger stopped that thought dead in its tracks. Perhaps after she’d calmed down she’d feel differently, but… the bitter sting in her voice was not fully gone just yet, even as she took more steadying breaths to calm and centre herself in the situation they found themselves in. She shot Lhirin a quick glance and directed him towards the book that he’d been so enamoured with, also curious to learn of its contents. She could not discount that something in the diary, presumably Feevesha’s words, might contradict its account of having been gifted his summoner’s flesh in a moment of desperation. It would be good to confirm that before they proceeded further.