[h3]Jaelnec, Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Nabi, Yanin, Jordan and Madara – Bor Manor, Borstown[/h3]
“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.”