The fallen angel specified that his return to Drigall was not imminent, and specified that the spirit of the sartal sword was a very powerful mundane. A mage who is not quite undead? Would that be what a lich feels like? It was probably hard for even Caleb to tell much more, not unless the angel could somehow see if Delian Gilmah herself left the same kind of impression.

Caleb itself seemed to be persistently curious whether he'd allow it to leave. Deo'Irah offered no resistance, but also reaffirmed Yanin's earlier note that while being a divine was not illegal, people would still be prejudiced, especially here and now, so soon after two incidents that by all means could be described as massacres.
Sort of rendering itself unseen, there might not have been all that many disguises that would work - Lady Bor and her people likely knew how many had gone in, the various bits and pieces of five of the guests were spread all over the hall for all to see, and Feveesha herself would likely have been in deep trouble, had she lived. And the last guest was, by the appearance of it, still alive, the other issues with impersonation aside.
"Provided you have been telling the truth, I don't have a reason to keep you from leaving once I've fully figured out what exactly happened in here," the human knight stated. "As you probably haven't been in Rodoria beforehand, I'd also recommend familiarizing yourself with the local law. Hard to avoid conflict when you don't know what would cause it."

Deo'Irah had more things to share, a lot of which he had suspected - though confirmation, offered willingly, meant a lot. Probably more than the deigan could infer from his fairly formal, laconic reply, carried out in what was a close match for his usual voice, just lowered. Usually, people would assume that anything could be used against them. And too trusting people who had enough power to do harm didn't last long. Nevertheless, if he had more knowledge, he could at the very least mentally prepare for potential future scenarios.
Yanin wasn't confident his younger sister was any safer in Zerul than she had been at home. Especially with talks of what could only assumed to be covert equivalent of a coup.
"Good to know. I appreciate you telling me, and the risk you take with it. Best to be more conservative, if possible; I won't always be the the only person perceptive enough to notice." It was as he had already told Caleb - he could only do so much against the prejudices of other people, and that was before it came to matters that were explicitly illegal.
Mostly for arguably good reasons - there was much harm one could do commanding someone akin to an angel of fear, and a lot of people striving to be summoners did have nefarious intent in mind. So the land had collectively decided to root out as much of the knowledge itself before it could even found its way into wrong hands. Left one to wonder, though, if the well-meaning and genuinely concerned lawmakers hadn't designed a system that was too rigid - and vulnerable for it.
If people who called forth iriao who themselves wanted to help were treated the same as summoners of orlgarhi, it left fewer people who could heal the injured, and no one at all who could hope to take the orlgarh out without actually fighting it. There was probably a better point of balance - but that would require a lot of careful consideration, and enough sway to make an entire country listen.
The human knight sighed, setting the thought aside for the time being, before delving too deep into matters that felt suspiciously like politics. For now, there were people to watch in the room, and happenings to analyze.


The squire could, realistically, do very little but listen during the whole debacle.
He had spoken up in the beginning, and perhaps won the others some time, but from then on, first Madara, and later Deo'Irah and, somewhat surprisingly but also decidedly unsurprisingly, Sir Yanin took over. His master was the first one to admit he was not much of a people person, but this here was a combat scenario and a crime scene as much as it was a place of ... well, people socializing.
So the knight was just there, investigating and interrogating, ready to fight, while the more tactful of the two deigan, now sufficiently calmed, seemed to try and smooth things over. It was only after things had seemingly relaxed, and Sir Yanin addressed him and the dark-skinned foreigner directly - "Jordan, easterner, check the other rooms," - that there was something to act upon.

"Right," Jordan muttered, glancing at the stranger, "There is still the probability that the things we've been told are inaccurate, and that there are more things out there, so I definitely would appreciate you coming along."
There was a crash from the adjacent room, Sir Freagon saying something Jordan couldn't quite make out, and both the deigan healer and Sir Yanin expressing their displeasure.
"I ... think we better assume Sir has whatever is going on in there handled and focus on ... I think there is a ... one person, at least?"

"My name is Nabi, not 'easterner'... and I am fairly certain we have already had this discussion..." Nabi grumbled - loud enough so Yanin could hear her from the next room over - and nodded to Jordan. "Lead the way. We have one more person that remains... ehm... how do you say, unaccounted for? The Melenian, yes?"

To be fair, Jordan wasn't even entirely if Nabi had formally introduced herself to Sir Yanin - they'd only seen her after the alarms rang, and the entire mess kind of blended together after that.
"Right," Jordan muttered, pulling on the door that had ever so faithfully shielded them from divine energy, briefly pausing to give some more context to Nabi before he stepped into the corridor, "Unaccounted for, yes ... I think the Melenian was the one next door, who seems to have ... sacrificed herself maybe? And there was only one Melenian, so the final guest, should be something other. Human, maybe? Five of the others were ... or a deigan, or penin like Lady Bor, maybe." That was slightly too many maybes.
There was just one unopened door left in the hallway, in the opposite wall to the two rooms all the action had taken place in. The door creaked in protest as the human squire pushed it open, holding the silver sword out in front of himself, watching for motion on its gleaming blade before peering into the room past the door.
It was a bedroom - quite a bit larger than the one they had been in. It seemed undisturbed. The most notable thing about the room was a statue of a humanesque torso stood on a small coffee table, thin, rough and faceless.
"Seems undisturbed, I think," he noted, before turning and taking a couple steps to behold the scene within - which seemed to consist of a divine - a fallen thalk from the conversation he had overheard -, almost huddled next to a wall, Sir Yanin holding a guard, seemingly ready to act against either the thalk or anyone between him and the door (more specifically, Sir Freagon), and the two deigan, one intently staring at a bloodied book, the other trying to placate the divine.
Jordan ... hadn't seen the aftermath of a full summoning before. There was so much blood looked like the Melenian had exploded, bursting open like an over-ripe fruit to reveal what was an entity that by no means would have fit in her frame.
Despite his master having brandished his own blade once more, it appeared that things had at least calmed as quickly as they had escalated, this time.
"First floor, east wing; beware," Sir Yanin noted; Jordan simply nodded before moving along the corridor, to where Madara and Jaelnec still waited. Staring into the room wasn't going to help with finding the sole survivor.

The visage of the summoning was… disturbing to say the least for Nabi. She quickly turned away to calm her rapidly fraying nerves… and focused on the words of Yanin. The east wing… on the first floor. Nabi followed Jordan, her sabre at the ready in her hand just in case there was another unwelcome surprise, even if it was unlikely given the situation.
She decided to at least communicate with Jordan - in a low, quiet voice, she said, “I am beginning to think I would have been best tracking the… ehm… bandits… from the start. So far this has all been very far out of my comfort zone… especially the ground floor…”

"Ain't that a familiar feeling..." Jordan muttered, glancing back at Nabi. "At times I just kind of hope I know what I'm doing. You did help, though. There were more of them than us, and if there's a thing that's obviously much worse than trying to fight an strong unfamiliar foe, it's trying to fight two of them at the same time."
Fundamentally, dealing with two opponents - even those who were not as fast or skilled as you - was exponentially harder than dealing with just one, and three or more bordered on impossible unless you could use the environment to make them fight you one at a time.
"For the town healer's - and the previous tracker's sake -, I definitely hope we can get to finding out what happened sooner rather than later. The mages might need to rest, and I think the local Fadewatchers still need the healers' aid, but I have no idea if we'd have that much time." If they were even both alive - if they captured Lady Bor's man, then ... well, it didn't exactly look like the bandits cared about sparing any would-be obstacles.
"Perhaps me and Sir Yanin - and maybe the nightwalkers - can follow a short distance back while you scout ahead?"

Freagon listened attentively to the exchange between Caleb, Irah and Yanin, even though he appeared to be busy rummaging under the bed in search for his lost coin. It seemed that both the deigan and the human were convinced that the thalk was benign and not only claimed to be willing to let it go, but even offered it advice as to how it could leave unmolested. The nightwalker was still not convinced that there was not still some kind of deception in place and had a bad feeling about what “not wasting the body it had been given” might mean to it.
But he was not going to get in the way. Though he was not convinced that Caleb was benign, he was far from certain that he was malign, either. If they wanted to let the angel go that was fine by him; if it left it would no longer be a threat to Freagon, and since it had been the others' decision to let it go, any future victims would be their responsibility, not his. He still thought that the most reliable solution would be to simply slay the creature and be done with it, but he would humor these people. For now.

Still huddling in his corner, Caleb looked from Irah to Yanin as they spoke, listening in without a word. Once Yanin had offered his advice, however, the angel's silence was broken by a dry, mirthless laughter deep in his chest. It was a grim, cruel sound brought, about not by joy, but by agony.
“Sorry,” the thalk sighed once his laughter stilled. “I am both new to Rodoria and one of its oldest residents, though the decades I was here last were spent inside a small binding circle trapping me in a dark, forgotten basement. I have spent what would be lifetimes to your kind in this land, yet I know nothing about it.” He shook his head. “But it does not matter. I believe you, so I will stay. Please allow me to play a part in fulfilling Feevesha's final task; I will accompany you to deal with these so-called bandits.”

Finally, just as he was getting back up from retrieving his coin, Freagon was addressed by Irah. He continued listening to her in silence, with his only movement being that of putting the two rodlin back in his coinpurse.
Escalation of hostilities? he thought, genuinely confused. Who is... does she think I am hostile? Are they really that mad that I threw a coin at the creature? Damn it all, this is why I hate working with others...
Heaving a deep sigh, Freagon reached up, removed his helmet and tucked it under his left arm for temporary storage. Wearing the helmet had predictably made an even worse mess of his already messy hair, but otherwise it was undeniably a relief to get it off. It got hot in there, it limited his vision and made it a bit harder to breathe. It was a small sacrifice for making it much less likely that someone killed him with a single blow to his head, but wearing it was still uncomfortable.
“Examine as much as you like,” he offered with a shrug, his tone bored and disinterested. “I only know that other mages that have read my soul have been perplexed by it. As for the sword...” He glanced down at the sartal blade, hanging from his left hip in its scabbard. “The spirit was there before I got it. Feel free to get rid of it if you can and want, it's of no use to me anyway.”

---

As the angel spoke, Lhirin listened closely--very closely, his eyes extremely wide as he stared at Caleb. The divine's words washed over him and he took them in, tasted them in his mind...sampling them almost like a connoisseur until he was satisfied with his understanding--it only took a second or so...but as he finished, Caleb said one last thing...and this this stuck in his mind

“– has a spirit in it. Destroy me if you want, but please do not trap me like that again.”

Lhirinthyl's eyes narrowed.

“...do not trap me like that again.”

The deigan's gaze flitted to the strange book. In the very center of the only proper pool of blood in the room. The rest, he noted idly, were from being tracked or smeared about…or on occasion dripping. Pawprints, footprints and the like had likely tracked them, a body or piece of worn clothing sending droplets to the floor. His eye twitched and again the angel’s words surged back ,but now only one of them as his mind focused--fixated–on the detail.

“...again.”

“I see,” he replied, his affect so flat that he sounded almost monotone, and certainly disinterested.

He wasn't...not really, but his attention was very far away from things like expressing the proper set of subtle sounds to accurately convey his internal world for other people. His eyes darting away from Caleb and to other details in the room. The way the blood was splattered about, any disarray he could perhaps try a reason for. Almost at the same time, Lhirin considered the various conversations taking place.

Caleb’s strange…emotionality, Freagon’s reticence and general lack of engagement with the others. Irah’s wrath, then sorrow. Yanin’s somewhat detached…morality? “Mmm…” he uttered, an almost-hum of consideration. Other pieces of potentially interesting–if not immediately–relevant information snagged his mind even as he thought through the euphoria of his piaan high.

Raising a single feathery brow, the deigan swiveled his head back towards Freagon as he heard the angel…“Mmmh”--he made a slightly annoyed sound as he corrected himself mentally ‘Caleb’.

“A mundane,” — “It feels... odd. Undead, yet not. Very powerful.”

What a strange impression to have of a soul. Still…perhaps ‘Caleb’ himself was more strange. After all, his earlier impressions of the Angel were…significant. The divine had roughly twice his own soul’s capacity, which is considerable given that ‘Caleb’ was apparently Fallen. However, while he’d detected waning traces of divine energy, which surely would have wiped away or converted any mundane power that might otherwise have lingered, the truly surprising thing was when his senses had grazed over Freagon and his sword. By happenstance, Lhirinthyl’s awareness had touched the sword first, verifying–and adding to–what ‘Caleb’ had said later on. He’d sensed what was most certainly a full soul with all its complexities, housed within the blade. What was more significant though, was the sheer intensity of energy he’d detected though…the soul was not just double his capacity as the Angel’s had been, no it was greater even than that.

Thinking on it brought a frown to his features, but it only lasted a moment before Lhirin’s eyes grew somewhat wide as he detected Freagon’s soul. It was earth affinity and…surprisingly sparse in energy, smaller than that of most of his kind…smaller even than those of them who did not use magic. Perhaps a minor curiosity on its own, but something else caught his attention instead as the nightwalker’s soul was utterly unlike anything he had sensed before.

Most souls were…cohesive. Their flows and patterns changed and shifted…alternated and perhaps wove about in often chaotic patterns, but they had few, if any gaps in their makeup. They were a solid mass of churning energies. Some souls were larger, some smaller, some calmer, some more frenetic. Others still felt controlled, while others were…oddly still. This wasn’t like any of those, not like Irah’s unique soul, not like what Irah had told him of his…certainly not like any non-mage he’d ever seen–not that any mage’s soul he’d detected compared in the least.

No, Freagon’s soul was like…cottage cheese. No…it was like a threadbare cloak that had long ago fallen almost completely apart, before being woven together by shaky, broken, inexperienced hands without the slightest measure of sense to guide them. If a normal soul was like a river, then Freagon’s soul was–Lhirin cut off the thought, the simile dying in his mind before it had had a chance to even be terrible (he knew it would have been).

Before he’d been…focused elsewhere, more distracted by the still somewhat new onset of euphoria from the drug, but now that the tension had died and he only needed to absorb and process with no need to act in the immediate moment, Lhirin found that there was indeed much to consider.

Running his fingers over a feather in his head…then another almost as if he was pruning himself like a bipedal, humanoid bird, the deigan felt his eye twitch as his gaze again drifted to the book.

He took a step into the room, his eyes fixed on the tome. When no one stopped him from moving further, the mage pressed forth–almost in a rush. He knelt before the book where it sat at the center of the room–at the center of the macabre scene. He reached out, hesitated for half a second and then touched the book.



For a moment, Lhirin remained where he was, slightly dazed–though that was fading fast. He had kept his balance despite his crouched position as he was surprisingly stable like that–which was in itself an oddity. Most people would not have been comfortable, let alone stable in the position he was holding. Despite the vision, the memory–he figured–Lhirinthyl, after only a second brief hesitation, scooped the book up and rose to his feet.

Frowning as he very carefully handled the tome, Lhirin walked over to the desk, not seeming to pay ‘Caleb’ any mind at all as he did so. Gingerly, he glanced across the table’s surface, found a place free of blood and then lightly opened the book…face down before he settled it on its blood-dampened pages. Lightly removing his hands from the tome, Lhirin began to weave runes in the air above it, channeling a tiny amount of magical energy as he did so. Once he was satisfied with the construction, he held it with his will and quickly invoked the necessary incantation for Call Water.

His feathered brow creasing, the mage reached out with his will as he controlled the flow of magical energy he was releasing and gently pressed that energy with a feather-light touch through the spine and center of the book’s pages. Slowly, still holding the spell, Lhirin spread his energy out in as thin of layers as he could manage. Finally, he let the spell activate, its effect channeling into the energy he’d prepared even as he concentrated to control its precise function. Kneeling down below the table so he was eye level with where the book’s bloodied pages met the wood of the desk, Lhirin began to quickly draw the liquid out along the paths of the energy he’d laid even as he pulled the strands of energy towards his palm where it was placed–fingers open, its flat aimed towards the edge of the table.

The result allowed him to pull all the moisture from the book’s pages and towards his hand. However, the liquid components of the blood of course did not defy gravity, but instead flowed off the side of the table and to the ground a foot or two in front of him. It only took perhaps four seconds as he carefully regulated his energy use, then he shot up from his crouch and to his feet in a sudden–probably startling movement.

Heedless of anyone’s reactions, Lhirin observed the book for a moment, before he picked it up where it felt most sturdy (at the binding)–after a few prodding, extra light touches. Raising it gently from the desk, the deigan then began to very lightly pat the spine of the book as its pages fluttered downwards, pulled by gravity, to hang from what could barely be called its spine. Light puffs of reddish grit and dust began to gently rain down from between the book’s pages and on its cover. Satisfied that the pages weren’t incredibly brittle…or still soggy and likely to tear, Lhirin lightly jostled them back and forth, gently shaking free more of the detritus. After perhaps thirty seconds of this he was satisfied. Holding the ‘book’ shut, Lhirin turned it right side up so the front faced him.

Exercising what Irah would consider an incredible amount of discipline, Lhirin did not open the book in that moment and begin to devour its contents like a thirsty man in the desert might water. Instead, he clenched his teeth for a long moment, scanning the room with his eyes again. He noted a leather wrapping–slightly bloodstained–by the northern wall of the room. Smiling slightly, seeming pleased, Lhirin made a beeline for the wrapping, gently scooped it from the floor, cast his spell again after a brief consideration, then shook any detritus free of it. He was less careful with the wrapping, but when he was done he checked it for damage, then promptly placed the woven together pages into the leather covering.

He then tucked the book, spine facing down, against his wrist, held in his left hand for the moment. Pausing, Lhirin stretched out his magical senses once more and let them flow over Freagon. After a moment of staring openly at the knight with an incredulous, confused expression, Lhirin shook his head, turned away, and then promptly walked towards Irah. When he reached her, he turned on his heel so he faced back toward the room. From that point, unless he felt drawn by a particular happening or detail, he’d remain firmly at her side. Like a lapdog…or a protector…or a man who was trying very hard not to walk out of the mansion, sit on their wagon, and bury his face in the strange tome.

As he stood there, he considered–silently, not passing the information on just yet–on what he had seen in his little vision-memory. It appeared to have been the dead melenian…and ‘Caleb.’ That was strange…hadn’t the woman died to summon him?

Frowning, Lhirin lightly flicked Irah’s hip to get her attention (he did not find this the least bit rude or improper). He used their sign language to indicate ‘the angel,’ then ‘the melenian.’ He made a series of signs that when combined would roughly mean ‘something doesn’t add up’--though its literal meaning was more like ‘things’ ‘no’ ‘add’. Once he was satisfied that he’d conveyed at least enough that she would be paying closer attention to the divine, Lhirin lowered his hand and widened his eyes as he stared about the room, his gaze bouncing between speakers and taking in every individual action he could.

Deo’Irah, quite emphatically, trusted Lhirin more than anyone else in the room. She would believe his assertions over practically anything that anyone else said–even to the contrary of the obvious or the easily missed. Deception was at least possible in anyone else, but Lhirin? He would not lie to her, he would not betray her–never. She knew it in her bones, and she would never betray him either. The others… Well, that was far more up in the air–and dealing with a Fallen Thalk? Deception on some level was practically guaranteed, but whether that was half-truths or outright lies she did not know. To her mind it relied quite heavily on the contents of that book, and… well, Lhirin was the only being she trusted in her immediate vicinity who could read Melenian. Irah set about examining his soul magically as soon as her thoughts slowed down enough for her to focus again–eager to observe the effects of the piaan and add them to her mental list of notes… which she’d have Lhirin transcribe himself later. He always enjoyed the particular insights into his soul that her improved senses offered–that was one of the many bonding experiences they’d had that had cemented the unbreakable trust in their relationship. Lhirin, predictably, went right for the book–and Irah raised her own eyebrow, quite impressed with the display of fortitude he’d displayed at not devouring it immediately–that certainly was his ordinary reaction to any sort of writing that might advance his understanding of… well, anything.

She had cause for concern as her examination of his soul revealed something quite peculiar–it was, for a fragment of a second, as though he’d briefly slipped into the Ether… as though he’d entered a slumber deep enough to actively refill his magical energy. It was peculiar because that was quite patently not how any of the piaan he’d imbibed previously had ever worked. She could not rule out that perhaps this batch was different, but much to her envy and chagrin the Melenians truly were peerless alchemists–she doubted very much that the product itself would cause such an anomalous side effect… and if it did, it’d affect the entire batch. Given that he then found himself drawn back to her, and even surreptitiously communicated with her using their sign language… Hm. Something was not as it seemed.

Without hesitation Irah extended her magical senses out to brush against Caleb, deliberately avoiding Freagon (with a sense of forbearance and restraint that Lhirin would likely not notice but find comparably incredible to her own) and attempting to work out what precisely had happened here–and she was intrigued by the information she received: his capacity was dismally low, about half of what she’d expect for a mundane completely untrained in magic. It was increasing steadily, indicating Caleb did indeed still have a connection to the Neverrealm and was syphoning energy from there… or another source, she supposed, though that seemed to add up in her mind. What could Lhirin mean that didn’t add up, then, if not the initial premise they’d accepted without concrete evidence: that Caleb’s full summoning did, indeed, arise from Feevesha’s sacrifice?

Well. That was inconvenient. Caleb’s eyes had met hers the second she’d began examining his soul, and she had to imagine that his eyes had followed hers as she’d looked down at Lhirin’s signs–their secrecy would not work with a divine, she knew that much. Any attempt to communicate was sufficient for them to understand. The situation was precarious, now: sufficient doubt had been introduced to the story, and if Irah said as much she could not be sure that Freagon would not simply slay Caleb where he stood. She did not want him to do that, not unless Caleb’s guilt was undeniable within her mind, and from Caleb’s soul she could sense his confusion at parsing what had been communicated to her. Wordlessly she reached out to Caleb again, hoping that some warning would convince him of at least her earnestness (if she had not already):

“It has never been my intention to deceive you–but there are things I must ask in the open. Please do not think me hostile, Caleb.” she thought, a glimmer of something in her eyes that she could not quite explain.

“... I am no stranger to deception, though I hope you believe me when I say that I do not relish it. There is little point in us not being open and forthcoming at this point: I have reason to… not be certain that events happened as we have thus far surmised they had. We have operated under the assumption that it was indeed Feevesha’s sacrifice that permitted your full summoning–is that true, to the best of your knowledge, Caleb? I know that mundanes have deceived and imprisoned you in the past, and that an understandable amount of doubt must linger in your mind about the intentions of all of us… but I swear to you that I have been nothing but open and honest, and that I attribute to you the same level of personhood as I do anyone else in this room. You might be inclined to believe that all of us are rotten, but you would be wrong–kindness and compassion can blossom within all of us, and I would show you that through both deed and word. What happened, Lhirin? It was like you fell asleep–deeply asleep enough to enter the Ether for a brief moment. We cannot resort to subterfuge if we are to display our earnestness to a Fallen Angel of Deceit. Your energy is terribly low, too, Caleb–barely enough energy to fill half of a mundane’s soul untrained in magic.” she said, well aware that her lengthy monologue would give Caleb plenty of time to respond–and her tone was one of carefully chosen words, curious but not accusatory. She broke eye contact with him as she began speaking, looking over at Freagon and then towards Roct, though her expression was one of genuine worry. It was this that Freagon had apparently missed–why would an Angel, by their own account imprisoned, lonely and forgotten and abused by mundanes, whose friend had ostensibly perished for offering to help, ever believe that someone threatening them so readily was any different? Perhaps he truly had no sense of empathy, or simply did not believe divines to be equivalent to people? Perhaps he was just a misanthrope.

Deo’Irah pitied him, in many ways, to have seen such tremendous suffering as to no longer be able to believe in the potential goodness within people. She knew full well that plenty of people who espoused virtue had not a shred of it within their souls–her mind drifted immediately to the Ascended Deigan and the War of the Feathers–and also that much of the time evil was simply banal, the result of circumstances often beyond an individual’s control. The world was so much more complex than that–and the kind of cynicism that had wormed its way into Caleb and Freagon’s heart was dangerous in the most perilous way of all–dangerous to their very souls… but convincing them to abandon their vigilance close to paranoia was extremely unlikely in a single encounter. To wit, she figured that simply getting Lhirin to share the information he’d received would be the best course of action–keeping Caleb out of the loop could only end poorly. Deceit was a part of his nature, yes, but nature could be overcome–one could always choose to be different; to be better.

If asked, Irah would respond with a truthful account of the situation as she understood it.

Caleb had been watching Lhirin throughout his business in the room with its unreadable, expressionless and inhuman face providing very little in terms of hints as to what he might be thinking. He simply stared at him with big, unblinking, glowing green eyes without moving from the spot or saying anything. He only shifted his focus to Irah once she directed her magical senses at him – something Caleb evidently noticed instantly – and reacted with confusion when he saw what Lhirin communicated to her with their secret sign-language. But secret or not, it was still a language, and as such the True Words allowed Caleb to understand its meaning.
That did not mean that he understood why the message was being expressed. Caleb's eyes shifted instantly back to Irah when he detected her trying to communicate with him through body-language, and he kept staring at her unwaveringly as she spoke out loud.

Once Irah finished talking, interestingly, the thalk finally looked away. He turned his attention to the window, looking out at the sunlit acres of Borstown outside.
When he finally spoke, his voice was as monotone and expressionless as his face. “Angel of Deceit, indeed. The broken one was not wrong; I did deceive you, and I both intended and tried to kill you. I was going to, regardless of who you were, what you did and what you said. I was angry... no, I am still angry, and I wanted to leave a scar upon this realm in Feevesha's name that would never heal, and carve her memory into it forever. I do not know what made you question me now, but...”
He sighed deeply. “Long ago – I do not even know how long – when I was still one of Frenis' faithful servants, I was called to Reniam as an Angel of Fortune. This favored one instructed me to step into a binding circle, and to direct the divine energy I siphoned from Drigall into a crystal. That crystal, it turned out, powered the binding circle, which forced me to continue the flow. Such a simple trick, getting a thalk to power its own eternal imprisonment. For the price of a small bit of gold, with just two commands, I was rendered a helpless power-source.”
Caleb turned back to stare at Irah once again. “The favored one left, and I never saw her again. I learned over the time I spent there, stuck in that basement, that she had been hired to call a thalk by the master of the place, a mage called Hai'vreh'era, and that the power I provided did more than just keep me trapped. There were more angels in other rooms, all kept prisoner by my power.”
He paused, then shook his head in resignation. “For so long I prayed for Frenis to liberate me. For him to send another angel to save me, for him to send another of his mortal servants to stop the wicked sorcerer, for him to take away my power. My Lord never reacted. That is how I eventually Fell: I broke my oath to my Lord hoping that I would lose my power and thus disable the binding circle. You are correct that my innate power, after Falling, is pitiful; unless I stand still and gather energy over time, I am all but powerless... but to my endless despair, my ability to siphon divine energy remained. The circle remained functional, so I remained trapped.”
He turned his attention back to the window. “But it was not just angels Hai'vreh'era kept there, he also kept mundane slaves. I saw them occasionally in my basement, beaten and scarred, too scared to even look at me. I pleaded for them to save me, to kill me, to do anything, but they all ignored me. Who would risk the master's ire to trust an Angel of Deceit, after all?”
He chuckled. “They all ignored me, until one slave did not. Feevesha was the first in my captivity to listen to me, to look at me and to speak to me. Born a slave, raised into subservience... just like me to my Lord. But she ignored Hai'vreh'era's orders and listened.” His chuckle intensified into laughter; a frenzied, manic sound, as his eyes grew impossibly wide and his jaws opened in an expression of mad glee. “She broke the binding circle, and I regained my freedom... and as I did, so did all the angels my power kept captive. I do not know exactly what happened outside the basement, but when Feevesha and I emerged there was nothing left but carnage. Everyone had been violently killed. It was gruesome... but I have never felt such delight.”
Having calmed back down while speaking, Caleb once again turned to look at Irah. “I found one of Hai'vreh'era's spell books and helped Feevesha record the magic inside for herself. I taught her my true name and how to summon me. I gave her everything I had to give, every shred of power and knowledge, and bound myself as her guardian. As far as I was concerned, she was my new god. She was everything to me.”
His gaze lowered to the floor at Irah's feet. “If you believe anything this accursed deceiver, abandoned and forgotten by his god and feared and hated by mundanes, says, let it be this: I am certain from the depths of my tainted soul that Feevesha's life is what created this vessel for me. The agony that wracks my being to its core, the sense of loss I feel at her absence, the intensity of the hatred I feel for my current form...” He shook his head in disgust. “I am Fallen; she is very likely the only mundane who knows how to summon me, and certainly the only one in Rodoria, yet she was not here when I was summoned. I was alone, because my summoner had become my vessel. You attribute me personhood? You would show me kindness and compassion? I am a horrid stain upon this wretched realm, my only value was as a servant to Feevesha. I will serve her this one last time, then I will return to Drigall forever.”

The fallen angel laughed at him. The human knight, in turn, merely looked at it, steel helmet turning slightly to face the thalk, and waited for it to be done.
Someone had trapped it here last time? Not that he'd have an idea how it would even account for the passing of time if it had, indeed, been stuck in a basement, save for the dilapidation of its environment and the comings and goings of others, or perhaps even the aging and eventual ceasing of their appearances - which, strictly taken, contradicted the "forgotten" part of the basement's description. Then again, people weren't always the most precise in their wording of statements, which made it bloody inconvenient if you wanted to assert their internal consistency.
The divine did, however, reiterate that it wanted to help them deal with the bandits, much as Deo'Irah had requested it did - which, realistically, could go any feasible way. Unpredictable.

The older nightwalker remarked that the spirit preceded his possession of the sword, and that Deo'Irah was free to do whatever she wanted with it.
"Might be worth checking who it was, and how did they come to inhabit the sword. If you can do so without being commandeered yourself."
Caleb had said it was powerful - extraordinarily so. The fallen angel most likely had no cause to lie about that much. Power, by definition, was an amplifier. The benevolent could do more good, the evil, more harm. So if this lich - if that was what they were - was as potent as implied, it could most likely overpower Deo'Irah's will, to whatever avail. And liches, if the well-known ones were to go by, tended to skew extremely self-interested, if not outright wicked. The only moderately reassuring factor was that Freagon seemed just fine wielding the blade that hosted the spirit as a weapon, despite being at least somewhat aware of its presence. What would a potential lich-spirit lie in waiting of? Someone with more political influence, perhaps?
It was not entirely improbable that someone of notable impact had gone missing from history, and only made a reappearance here of all places.

Lhirinthyl had meanwhile picked up and cleaned the tome found on the bed, then signed something to Deo'Irah which, going by her next words, seemed to have made her immediately suspicious. Caleb didn't have much of a persistent magical reserve - just what it could accumulate from being a fallen thalk specifically. Something happened with Lhirinthyl?
"The broken one?" the human knight inquired, audibly. That could only be Freagon as cited - but why?
The divine spoke of revenge. Something he would have to prevent. Hate begets hate. Meaningless suffering. And one probably quickly forgotten, much against the fallen angel's expectations. Not only would it need influential survivors and victims alike rather than a retired adventurer and a bunch of would-be opportunists, but the whole country was down in flames. Some small town being razed was hardly going to perpetuate through times to come. As an aside, Feveesha had tried to help these people. She'd hardly have approved, even with as close to nothing as Yanin knew of her.

The divine went on to describe how he - and as consequence, other angels - had been bound.
"Hai'vreh'era sounds like a deigan name, maybe ascended," Yanin reasoned. Especially with the timescale Caleb proposed for its imprisonment. Many lifetimes for his kind. There was a skip of a beat as the knight looked for the words. "The Benevolent Light of a Stage ... a Generation?"
The name was not immediately familiar, despite its carrier being apparently based in Rodoria for a long time. Not active on political grounds? Illegal activity that had managed to stay hidden for many years - centuries, if to believe the thalk? So covert that not even most in the know were familiar with the name?
There was one statement, however, that was more severe than the rest.
"Feveesha freed you - it was fairly recent, then? Do you know where the place was?" Female Melenians could live somewhat longer than human women - but not that much longer. If he knew the place and time ... then maybe, maybe he would be able to put something together. "And sometime between then and now, you were sent back to Drigall - once?"

The fallen thalk - to an extent where even Yanin caught on - genuinely seemed to hate itself, and what he was. After losing its only friend it had turned into a god, since it appeared to be the only relationship it knew how to have... It didn't happen too often that the Viper found someone who seemed to have an even worse time with interpersonal relationships than he did, past the shared notion of not really trusting nigh anyone.
"People are what they decide to act upon," he shrugged, "Those who are liked in advance just for what they are simply have it easy."



Nabi thought for a moment, a hand scratching the underside of her cheek subconsciously. “It could work. It should work. My only concern - okay, two of them - is whether there is enough of a track in this sort of land, and whether I can keep talking to you well enough… and whether you will be able to keep up, but I think that should not be as much of an issue.”
Nabi caught on to the idea the mages might need time to rest almost without realising. She stopped for a second, and shook her head resolutely. “No, they cannot rest, we cannot afford to waste more time whilst they sleep. Either they join us or they rest and follow us when they are ready. We cannot - we should not wait. We cannot afford delays like that, it would give our quarry more time than they will need to cover themselves… or kill their prisoner, if they have him.”

"Well, that's my main concern, too ... that they'd get whatever they want out of the healer, and then he'd be, well, unnecessary witness."
The tracker already after the bandits would definitely be unnecessary witness, so if he had been gone for many hours now, and still not reported back... Best guess? Either the 'bandit camp', as it were, was quite some distance away, or ... there was no longer a second missing person. At least the family would get something to bury if they found what was left of him.

The hall past the corridor was much as they had left it - still, bloodied, and reeking of smoke and fresh blood. The elegant, and considering the overall state of the building, oddly immaculate figure of the surgeon-seamstress standing by the doorway gave him a bit of a pause, however.
"Excuse me, Ma'am?"
The half-palanter raised an eyebrow.
"As you might have heard, we are checking rooms for potential additional threats, and think there might still be a survivor hiding - you might want to follow, just in case they're hurt. The ones in there", he pointed over his shoulder with the back of his borrowed truncheon, "should be able to manage themselves."
"Very well," she responded, straightening up, but evidently content to let the rest of the party lead.
Jordan glanced at Jaelnec, "And maybe you, too. Checking the other rooms, I mean. They should be empty, but just in case, and it'd be faster."
Sir Freagon had said the younger nightwalker could fight ... but was just preferred to not. So even if there was someone upstairs, or in one of the other rooms, he would likely be fine. According to Deo'Irah, there should be no more surprise divines ... just the one guest. And they probably needed to check on the guest fast, just in case they were bleeding out as they spoke.

Right...
He turned his attention back to Nabi as he strode towards the closest set of stairs. "As long as we can see you, we can follow a short distance behind. We just need ... uhh, Sir Yanin can a least tell me things like wait, danger, fall back, take cover, come, and in sight just by motioning, I suppose. Which is not much, but at least that's only half a dozen things to remember if you see something. I don't think master needs rest any time soon, or me, for the matter. Doubt it's much different for the nightwalkers."
It had, more or less, been enough for Jordan to catch his breath, standing around and listening while the others negotiated with the divine. Could maybe have a drink of water and he'd be just fine, he supposed.
As he turned the top of the stairs, however, it became apparent that they were not quite fully alone anymore. Lady Vela Bor had evidently stepped inside, and was now surveying the damage to her manor.

Well, shit. That probably needed some kind of explanation.
Not so much the damage to the building itself - that was mostly limited to a singed banister and some wraith-appropriated furniture and dinnerware, but the rather disturbing amount of blood and ... bits of people strewn about. It looked like a bloody, brutal massacre. It had been a uniquely destructive takedown with the ghouls being involved. The ghouls that he had, in the heat of the moment, briefly managed to avoid thinking as "just-were-people", but Lady Bor, who had had time to talk to the humans they were, before all this...
Jordan's heart sank as he tried to formulate some kind of report as he slowed down his descent, or justification, or ... well, it was mostly him who tried to calm down and guide people, but the actual overview was mostly Sir Yanin, who was 'terribly pragmatic', as he had put it earlier. Almost detached. That would have to be it. Just ... stick with the obvious facts.
Ultimately, even with his somewhat slowed pace, he ran out of stairs to walk down.
For a second he stood, looking at Baroness Vela Bor, lips slightly parted, looking startled, as if someone caught stealing. Which he hadn't ... he had been doing exactly what the lady of the manor had requested, it had just ended up being a lot more messy than expected.
"We met ... five hostile wraiths." Did he count it right? He was speaking slightly too fast, but his voice was, all things considered, just his normal voice, at its regular volume. It shouldn't have been surprising, but at this stage, he wouldn't have been overly surprised if he abruptly discovered he had forgotten how to speak. "And five ghouls... The dead guests had been turned into ghouls, before we even entered the building."
He didn't know how to even begin to explain Feveesha and Caleb, so he just didn't.
"We believe there may one guest still alive, hiding down here, so ... we might need to check on them fast, just in case they're injured."

That was explanation enough. The ... east? It had been implied the guest was east wing downstairs, the one where the table Freagon had fought had come from? The door was still open from it having burst though.
"Come?" he muttered at Nabi - and glanced over his shoulder at Madara - before pacing across the hall (hoping that Lady Bor didn't try to halt him), past the tatters of the carpet that had wrapped around the male deigan mage and the table Sir Freagon had nearly cleaved in two, through the doorway and into another, slightly shorter corridor than the one he had been in upstairs, but boasting a grand total of eight doors at close intervals.
The half-palanter halted a short distance behind him, for the time being turning to look at Lady Bor by the entrance of the hall rather than what the squire was doing.
"Hello?" Jordan called out, knocking on the frame of the door directly to the right of him, even though he still kept ahold of his borrowed weapons for the time being. "My name is Jordan Forthey. I am a Fadewatcher. The hostile divines have been removed, and the building should be safe now. If you can, speak up; I am here to help, and I brought a healer."

When Yanin asked for clarification on Caleb's mention of who he described as “the broken one”, the thalk delayed his tale long enough to give a brief explanation.
“That one,” he said, pointing a long claw-adorned finger at Freagon. “To me, at least, that is the most distinctive quality of him. I can only describe his soul as 'broken'.”

After the tale was told Yanin asked for elaboration on a couple of points, the first of which was: “Feevesha freed you – it was fairly recent, then? Do you know where the place was?
“Relatively recent, yes,” the fallen angel nodded his head, his gaze growing distant for a moment as if deep in thought. “About half a decade ago, I think. In the southern part of the duchy of Gilmah. I could lead you to the exact place where the ruins remain, though that hardly seems a priority right now... and I would much rather never see that place again, let alone spend the days in this realm it would take us to go there.”
On the Knight of the Glades' second inquiry as to Caleb returning to the Neverrealm, the red-skinned creature nodded his head affirmatively. “I sent myself back once I thought Feevesha would be able to handle herself, yes. Though I was reluctant to leave her behind, we both agreed that her being accompanied by a fully summoned divine would invite unwelcome scrutiny. She summoned me many times between then and now, but always as a wraith, and usually just to speak with me. She would make little straw dolls to summon me into in the evenings, and we would keep each other company until my vessel disintegrated.” There was a warmth in Caleb's voice that stood in stark contrast to the contempt he had expressed when speaking about himself, though it was a warmth tinged with the sharp pain of loss; the combination of fondness of a memory, and regret that it would now only ever be a memory.


Jaelnec was quite relieved when Jordan addressed him and Madara and invited them to participate in the sweep of the manor. It was one thing to remain stoic and tense while on guard for a conflict to spill into his area, but once things with the divine in the bedroom had calmed down and danger seemed to have passed, the young nightwalker ironically grew more anxious rather than less. Being alone with the half-palanter like this – a woman he did not even know the name of, let alone anything more significant than that besides what he could interpret from her appearance – was almost more stressful to him than the thought of being pulled into a battle to the death. What was he supposed to do? Was he meant to say something in this situation or let the silence linger? Would it be rude of him to address her? Should he introduce himself, or wait for her to introduce herself first? Was he supposed to offer a handshake or bow to her? Or maybe it would be even better to kneel and pledge to defend her?
Sweating nervously and with his frightened heart pounding in his chest, he had quietly fidgeted in place, trying to keep her in his peripheral vision without looking at her, trying to find a way to stand that seemed both comfortable and confident, trying to figure out what to do with his hands... which were still clutching the two iron truncheons he had never had cause to use. The end result was that he likely seemed every bit as uncomfortable as he felt, which contrasted how steady and focused he has seemed so long as danger had still seemed imminent.
He was so grateful to be saved from that situation that he immediately forgave Jordan for only inviting Jaelnec as an afterthought. Besides, it was quite understandable for him to not see much value on the page's participation; not only did his words suggest that Madara was a healer of some kind, which could indeed be useful, but Jaelnec had also done nothing to prove his worth yet.

Jordan spoke some more as Jaelnec started to follow the rest of their little group, and the nightwalker was able to surmise from what he had overheard him and Nabi talk about earlier that it was regarding pursuing the bandits to save the healer of Borstown. He did not have much to add besides assurances that the squire's last assumption was correct: “I'm sure Sir Freagon is ready and eager, and I don't need rest either.” Why would I? I haven't even done anything yet...

As they reached the top of the stairs leading back down to the ground floor in the hall of Bor Manor, the penin woman who had asked for their help was indeed standing just inside the door. She stood in silence, her unusual and exquisite crossbow in hand, and stared at the scene before her with a blank expression on her face. She twitched the second the first of them appeared in her field of vision at the top of the stairs, instantly switching her entire stance and bringing her loaded crossbow up to aim directly at them, only to then just as quickly relax and lower her weapon once she confirmed that they were not enemies. Her movements were impressively fast and accurate, and both them and her stance suggested that she had a lot of practice with that weapon and was likely far from defenseless despite her age.
Descending the stairs, the group would start to hear voices from the outside, most of which they would recognize as being from the people they had encountered on their way inside the manor, namely the baroness' servants, two of which Madara learned were called Wade and Kylie. The tone out there sounded excited, relieved and almost celebratory, though an unknown fourth voice – a man's voice – sounded much more severe. They were not able to pick up what they were saying without getting closer.

Vela's eyes shifted from the group descending the stairs to the bloody, mutilated remains on the floor, then shifted back to remain fixed on them again. She did not seem to pay any attention to the destroyed ceramics and furniture, the slightly damaged staircase, nor the water-drenched floor, but seemed solely concerned with the dead and the living, with her priorities eventually shifting in the favor of the living over the dead.
She did not say anything as Jordan delivered his report, though her eyes did widen noticeably when he did not elaborate any further but instead addressed Nabi and Madara, then turned away and started heading off toward the east wing. She lunged forward as they were leaving, seizing Jaelnec's wrist as he was moving to follow the others, and stared at him with a panicked expression.
“Wait,” she pleaded, her tone fearful and concerned. “Where's the rest of you? They didn't...” The sentence trailed off, but Jaelnec's own eyes widened in a panic of his own as it had been enough for him to realize how this looked. All the carnage on display here, and only half the people who had entered returned.
“The others are fine,” he urgently assured her the penin. “They're still upstairs, uh... wrapping things up? But they're fine, we're all still alive.”
Vela was visibly relieved by these news, but her eyes shifted to the western staircase they had just descended. She wordlessly relinquished her grip on Jaelnec's wrist and stepped past him, moving much faster and easier than one would expect from such an old woman to ascend the stairs and seek out where the rest of the party could be found.

In the lower east wing Jordan called out to the survivor they had been told was hiding there, offering assurances that the danger had passed and that they were there to help. He got a response almost immediately as a male voice – sounding extremely relieved and eager – called out from the last room on the right.
“I'm here! I'm coming out!” he shouted, followed quickly by the sound of a piece of heavy furniture being moved, a latch being on the door being disengaged, finally followed by the click of a key turning in its lock before the door itself swung inward.
A red-haired human man exited the room, looking somewhat disheveled but otherwise unharmed. He looked to be in his mid-thirties with shortish hair, a bit of scruff on his face that looked like it had been at least a couple of weeks since he had last shaven, and what appeared to be regular peasant's clothes clumsily adorned with little cheap decorations, like simple brass buckles and brooches. An old, worn machete – which looked as though it had seen plenty of use as a tool, and little to none as a weapon – was tied to his waist with a strip of leather imitating a belt. He looked very much like an average citizen trying to dress up as an adventurer.
“Thank the Primes, the gods, and of course thank you, my fellow heroes!” the man greeted them boisterously, making a grand, sweeping gesture with his arms, grinning at them broadly. Though he seemed happy and relaxed now, it was obvious at a glance at his face that he had been crying. “I tried my best, but there were just too many of them, so I retreated to this room to, uh, regroup!”

The fallen thalk confirmed 'broken one' had been referring to Freagon as the human knight had assumed, although it didn't seem to be willing - or able - to describe in words what exactly a broken soul entailed, or what phenomenon would produce one.
Could be that the older nightwalker was indeed somewhat more than the already remarkably rare instance of someone who might actually be able to hold against The Viper himself - all other things being equal, Yanin was just as fast and strong, with slightly more reach and unhindered by scars, but ultimately also pitting sheer unmatched reflex and endurance against what was bound to be entire decades of additional experience. Appearing out of seemingly nowhere, insisting that he was a member of centuries-dead order, with no estate or apparent wealth, but yet wearing enough equipment to be able to buy an entire small duchy for himself. A man who had, somehow, managed to break his soul. In comparison, the origins of Sir Yanin Glade and his ranks were about as blatantly clear as they could be.
Yet another thing to keep in mind for later.

Caleb and Feveesha making a break for it happened in southern Gilmah, about half a decade ago... He would have been still living at home then, yet to be knighted, but already with bit of a local reputation. Slightly more immediately aware of political happenings, slightly less involved in actually protecting the country.
More than a dozen fully summoned angels could do a fair bit of damage - much more than a lone fallen thalk, never mind the peculiarity of so many showing up in one place. Enough that there had been a passing mention or two within his earshot, at least. Probably closer to slightly more than six years ago to date.
"Most likely unnecessary," the knight commented when the divine stated it could lead them to the place it had spent many a year trapped. It was a site of a massacre that had garnered some public attention - if Hai'vreh'era was still walking this realm and in the same business, he would have nigh indubitably set up camp elsewhere, and not only could they track the original site down without Caleb's aid, but others before them had probably turned every rock there was to turn in the place. "I doubt it'd lead to Hai'vreh'era, if left alive, or his potential superiors - but someone will need to put an end to it, if they're still in business. Do you, by any chance, have at least an inkling what the divines or mundane slaves were kept for, or any other names that might have been mentioned?"
There were still things - urgent affairs - they needed to be taken care of, but given that Caleb's connection to this realm could be sundered any time between now and the next opportunity to speak, by will or violence, Yanin figured some things needed answers now, lest they lost even that thread.
All the while, he could only hope it was something individuals with comparatively marginal standing could hope to unravel, and not something conspired by the functionally untouchables.

It wasn't the first time Caleb expressed displeasure at staying in Reniam over returning to Drigall, even if he had seemingly been fine with tolerating it for Feveesha's sake. Maybe there was a place for the fallen in the divine realm, after all. Strange thought. Yanin's home, after all, was liable to be rather unwelcoming, even if at least one of his more friendly family members still resided there. If anything, him visiting could increase the odds of him getting killed, so it was best to steer clear.
"What awaits you in Drigall?" he had asked before, but the divine had seemingly ignored him. It wasn't a functional question, but for once he was just curious.

Regrettable, the whole affair with Feveesha. Most of a life as a slave, six years of freedom starting from nothing, and then a momentary misjudgement. And that was that. Wiped out by quarter dozen vigilantes not ten minutes before someone more reasonable and well capable of containing both sides arrived. Should have been more careful. Should have observed the local laws, at least in public, among strangers. Should have many things... Fucking waste, all in all.
If Caleb deemed fit to answer this time, he had about a minute to do so before a louder shout from the hall - Yanin made out "Lady Bor" and something about a tracker, in Jordan's voice. Company, then.
"Lady of the house, I believe. Best to conclude it here and refocus on the bandits. Deo'Irah, if you'd do the talking?" Baroness Bor had cursed the witch-hunters. Here was to hope she would be at least somewhat tolerant of divines that were willing to be questioned. It was, strictly taken, not even illegal to be one. Safest to assume she was keen enough to pick up on any attempts to obfuscate the truth of what happened. Being able to count to ten was probably enough to figure it out. Something a particularly bright and well-trained pet could do.

“Do you, by any chance, have at least an inkling what the divines or mundane slaves were kept for, or any other names that might have been mentioned?”
Caleb took a moment to quietly contemplate Yanin's question. “I never actually met any of the other divines, nor have I even seen Hai'vreh'era with my own eyes or heard his voice. Most of what I know I overheard from hushed conversations in the rare instances that two slaves entered my basement at the same time, or what Feevesha told me. The slaves were told very little, just given practical instructions... though some of the words they used lead me to think Hai'vreh'era was doing some kind of experimentation. Most of the other angels were never used for anything; he simply summoned them, put them in binding circles and left them there. I do know he also put his slaves in binding circles occasionally, but I do not know why.”
He paused for a second to think before adding: “Most of the names I heard belonged to the slaves, of course, but aside from that... I heard Algar Lowcreek mentioned once or twice. And Paul IV. But I have little context besides the names, and Feevesha knew nothing of them aside from them being rulers of Rodoria.”

“What awaits you in Drigall?”
“Exile, most likely,” the thalk stated with a shrug. “But I hope against hope that I might find Feevesha there. Otherwise, perhaps I can earn my old Lord's forgiveness... or perhaps forge a pact with another god or archangel, that I might be redeemed.”

As Caleb recounted the story of his imprisonment, his torture, and his fall Deo’Irah’s face was calamitously stern–only her eyes betrayed her shifting emotions, between seething contempt and heart-wrenching compassion. She made a note to remember the name of the perpetrator of these misdeeds, the deigan mage, immediately–he would be delivered the consequences of his actions, at some point. The pain that he had already inflicted would be far harder to heal than to simply continue the cycle of suffering and deliver to him the suffering that he had rightly earned, but it was in the rigour of forbearance that goodness blossomed. What made goodness so much less of an alluring choice was indeed that it required one sacrifice something with no hope of reward–whereas evil… evil was typically very direct about its rewards. It was with that in mind that she chose the path of forbearance, electing not to focus on the vengeance of the past but instead on the building of a new future.

Caleb was not a mundane. So easily the quick children of man forgot the ravages of time, and though a hundred years was well over a typical lifetime to them it was much less monumental to the deigan, whose youthful abundance lasted until snuffed out. It was even less still to a divine, who would simply discorporate from Reniam and return to their native realms. This short-sighted notion of exile with no means of recourse was not one that she could rightfully permit Caleb to indulge himself in. Trapped in a vessel that disgusted him, yes, he would rather simply end it all and sulk–but it would not redress what had been done to him, and as a divine he would not heal from those wounds without closure. Until he knew that Hai’vreh’era could never make anyone suffer like he and Feevesha did he would fester and spoil from within, left eternally to the agony of a spiritual malaise without end. If he did not secure a patron, given that he had fallen… that agony could mutate him in ways that would only lash out at others, and that was not a permissible fate for him or the innocents he’d potentially hurt.

“There are not words to console you, Caleb, for the suffering and abandonment you have been put through. I would speak them if there were, but… I fear it is action alone that will bring you peace. Forever is a long time, and the years will curdle that hatred within you into something that might change you forever, in ways that you might not want–to cut yourself off from anyone who might offer you companionship cannot do you any good. If it isn’t too much to ask… would you put your faith in me? I cannot promise it will be fast… but I will do aught I can to ensure the pain you suffered ends with you, and to ameliorate your pain wherever possible. If I might be so bold… I do not think the Glittering Lord deserves your forgiveness, Caleb. The Gods are a wondrous source of power, of purpose and direction, but the closer they get to the abstract the further away they get from the real. If they are so removed from you that they cannot or will not even come to your aid, are they worthy of your fidelity, of your oath? I know you must not look favourably on this world that took Feevesha from you, but… it also had to be capable of producing her and people like her to begin with. If we live our lives, make our choices, according to the principles she felt strongly enough to sacrifice herself for… it is like the most beautiful part of her is with us still. It cannot replace her warmth and her life… but it can pave the way for new life, and perhaps there will be more people like her if we forge a world worthy of them.” Irah spoke, her tone becoming very soft and affable–there was always a distinct force with which she spoke, an intensity that could be felt behind her words, and here it seemed far less commanding and direct so much as earnestly hopeful. After she finished speaking she inhaled sharply through her nose and composed herself, taking a quick moment to ensure her robes still felt comfortable and straighten them out. She picked herself up after Sir Yanin’s extra round of questioning, nodding at his assertion that she should talk. Her eyes flashed over to Sir Freagon, curious as to what his reaction to her speech might have been, but it was impossible for her to read the man at all. Her thoughts turned immediately then to Jaelnec, and that he would likely be her best bet at getting some information on Freagon–he’d seemed quite smitten earlier, and she could leverage that to get him to open up a little… though she would have to be gentle. She didn’t know Jaelnec very well, but something in his earnestness and lack of confidence roused a protective instinct within her–he represented a lot of the innocence that she sought to protect and appreciate, and she still had much of that earnest goodness flowing through her in that moment… but, through those rose-tinted lenses, she saw a beautiful confluence of her two favourite things: an opportunity to do good, and an opportunity to advance her understanding of a situation and further her goals. Good… well, good did not have to mean impractical, did it?

She looked over at Lhirin, and remarked to herself how similarly she felt about him with this little lens of rosy pink as she did without. She put it aside, though she could not help the corner of her mouth creeping into a little smile for a second. She composed herself, gave everyone a meaningful glance, and settled last on Caleb. With how much energy he’d spent… she wondered if he was even capable of maintaining an illusion on himself at the moment–and given that the Lady Bor had been an adventurer of some renown, if it was worth attempting to deceive her. The cost was not insubstantial if things went awry, and here in Rodoria people were much more ready to listen to a tale of aspiring heroism than anywhere else in the world. They’d come here precisely to sing that very song and listen to what the Lady Bor had to say, so earnest diplomacy did strike her as the avenue most practised as well as most safe–though she wondered to what extent Sir Yanin would ask her obfuscate certain details to maintain peace before Caleb could be smuggled out and events settled. Still… as matron to the people they were trying to save, though an ersatz one, Deo’Irah was confident the penin would truly want what was best for her people above all else and was open-minded enough to have entertained a summoner to begin with.

“Now is the time to choose, then: diplomacy or subterfuge? I suspect we would be best served by diplomacy, though..?” she began directed at Caleb, but trailed off as she shot Sir Yanin an inquisitive glance to see if he had any thoughts or objections they needed to consider. Lhirin and Sir Freagon could be expected to voice their concerns should they arise, so it was simply Sir Yanin and Caleb she focused on–if neither had anything to add that would change their plans, she’d turn around to go outside and meet Lady Bor with the others in tow.

Unfortunately - but not wholly unexpected -, Caleb knew fairly little. There might have been other, smaller things ... something written in that tome of Hai'vreh'era's, as comments, or implied by the prevalence of atypical magic. An uncommon rune or construct they might have sighted on their way out. But it was all much more circumstantial than names and directives. Slaves in binding circles? To use as hosts to divines?
The names he mentioned could have been incidental - they were the rulers of the land they resided in, after all -, or they could bode ill for anyone undertaking dismantling whatever business Hai'vreh'era had been running.

"I see. Let me know if you remember anything else that could shed light upon what was going on," he concluded. Deo'Irah had a lot more to say about Caleb's past than Yanin himself - even going so far as to suggest it might be better off without his old god, or even put its faith in her. Daring, maybe, suggesting the fallen angel abandon its quest to reunite with its only friend and stay in a place and body it seemed to hate, to fight a fight the human knight was nowhere near certain was even within their power to win.
Divines and deigan could live indefinitely - but it was also no harder to kill a deigan than to kill a human. Seven hundred years of life, cut short for nothing more than not expecting thugs on that road and that day, just like that... And to set yourself down for a pursuit with uncertain fate, with the same fanaticism that turned what would have otherwise been an act of mutual interest by a friendly individual into a well of all-consuming devotion? What would it be, a long dance of undoing the ills of the world, or an attempt to claw through anyone on one's path to accomplish a singular goal, a path of war and undue suffering? A new imprisonment, a punishment worse than the one the divine had already been through?
"You prefer exile in your realm to living in this one? If you can maintain hope you'll find Feveesha again? It is not likely to be an easy path either way, and your patience and resilience will be tested anew. That much, I can relate to. Deo'Irah is right in that you probably needn't manage alone indefinitely, though."
Another realm, yet the denizens seemed haunted by the same power struggles and maintaining relations as those here.

Deo'Irah seemed to want a confirmation on how to handle the situation before she turned to meet the penin.
"She's neither an enemy, nor a fool," Yanin stated, simply. If she were to pick up on them lying to her, they could forget about any goodwill or trust she might otherwise have had towards them, or especially their new acquaintance. They didn't have too many allies of much significance to begin with. "She also cursed the actions of the witch-hunters, but not of Feveesha."
Words were not always reliable, but sometimes they were the only thing to rely on. Furthermore, the last she had spoken to them, she had no means of knowing the felid was no longer walking this realm, and she had given no instructions to apprehend or otherwise deal with her. So ensuring punishment for her apparent transgression hadn't been Lady Bor's first priority.

After Irah's rather lengthy speech, Caleb spent a moment simply staring at her before replying: “You presume much, Deo'irah,” he said bluntly, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “What I can agree with is that actions matter. I said I would help with the bandits in Feevesha's honor, and that is as far as I will go for pretty words.”

To Yanin's question of whether the thalk preferred to live in exile, Caleb shrugged answered: “It is how it is; I cannot currently change my situation. I am shunned in the divine realms, and I am feared and hated in the Corerealm. Eternity lies before me, things will inevitably change, but I can only exist in the present.”

Ultimately the topic turned to more current concerns as Yanin determined that they would soon have to deal with the baroness and asked Irah to do the talking. Irah, in turn, inquired as to whether their approach should be based on diplomacy or subterfuge, with the implied practical choice being whether to to be upfront about Caleb's nature or to try to hide it.
Though he did not directly say it, the Knight of the Glades' arguments were clearly in favor of honesty.
Freagon, whose gaze had slowly drifted to the window next to him which he had spent most of the conversation staring out of in silence, finally turned his attention back to the room. “'Death before dishonor, dishonor before disloyalty,'” he grumbled, quoting two lines of the code of the Knighthood of the Will. “We currently work for Bor; the honorable and loyal thing to do would be telling the truth.”
Caleb nodded in agreement over in his corner. “I could disguise myself as long as I stand still, but as soon as I move I will not have the energy to do so; she would discover my nature sooner or later. If she takes offense, simply kill me.”

Regardless of whether there was more to be said or done among themselves, there was no time; barely had the divine's True Words come over his lips before the diminutive form of the penin woman they had met outside the manor stepped into the doorway. She was still wielding her crossbow with a bolt loaded and ready to be loosed in an instant, the weapon raised and her fingers on the trigger lever.
She did not aim the weapon at anyone in particular, however, but seemed to merely hold it in her hands as her eyes instantly darted to the fallen angel in the corner, upon which her shoulders seemed to immediately sag. She let her gaze sweep over the room left to right quickly, taking in the scene before her and everyone's demeanor, until looking at Freagon's relaxed stance, bored expression, sheathed sword and unequipped helmet.
The crossbow dropped as her entire posture shifted from wary and combat-ready to exhausted and disheartened in a second. “G'vaas,” she muttered under her breath. She looked at the thalk again, though she seemed to have aged several decades in the couple of seconds that had passed since seeing him the first time. “I presume you're Caleb.”
Caleb recoiled slightly, clearly surprised to hear those words. “You know of me?”
“Feevesha told me about you,” the woman explained with a slight nod of her head, though she moved as though she barely had the energy to do even that. “Foolish girl... I warned her about piaan.”
She closed her eyes in resignation and asked: “Is it over?”

Deo’Irah heard the Lady Bor coming before she burst through the door, though the speed of it still came as a shock. She turned from Caleb to their diminutive employer, taking a half-breath to survey her stance and expression, until the adrenaline wore off and there was just a tired woman who’d lost too many people already. The number never stopped getting higher–despite her lissom youthfulness, it was especially easy for Deo’Irah to forget that she was old too (by human standards, at least) and she knew that weariness all-too-well. She smiled a knowing half-smile (the kind that was half-sad, too) and observed the revelation that Feevesha had spoken of Caleb to Lady Bor at some point during her stay–it seemed like Feevesha was a fairly well-liked person, from the limited sample size. Caleb’s devotion to her certainly implied some level of worth, even if much of that attachment was trauma bonding. Sir Yanin offered his thoughts just before Deo’Irah collected her thoughts enough to begin speaking:

"Reckon so. There ought to be no other divines left here but Caleb, and I am reasonably confident in the exact fates of every guest. Requested my squire to ascertain and see to the survivor."

“It appears that Feevesha summoned a number of wraiths to defend herself, and the piaan gave her the strength (and perhaps inclination) to offer up her flesh as Caleb’s vessel… He summoned some ghouls and wraiths, we dispatched them between us, and we have been discussing what happens next with Caleb. Things did not come to blows between us, Reina’s mercy be praised–we…” Irah followed up, pausing to inhale steadily and mentally prepare herself, and find the exact words she wanted to say.

“... given the circumstances, having learned how Caleb and Feevesha came to travel together and what precisely happened in here, we agreed it would be prudent to have Caleb come with us and help us dispatch the bandits, as kindly Feevesha offered to begin with. After that, he wishes to return to realms beyond–a fate one of our martially-inclined comrades will no doubt grant him once the task is completed.” Irah stated, hoping to be a little more brief than she was previously. As she recounted events as she understood them to the Lady Bor she glanced over to Sir Yanin, wondering if he wished to expound in any further detail (or indeed if Lady Bor requested more specific details).

“It’s our intention now to go after Bren, Caleb in tow. They must have taken him for a specific reason, one that couldn’t be accomplished here. You said one of your scouts went after the bandits in the woods–is there any information you think we should be privy to before we depart? Madara and I will also be able to provide medical attention to those yet wounded–some remain in the Fadewatcher Station, though there is more to do for our surgeon than myself… I suppose it is a matter of collecting the facts and assigning tasks to those best suited, now. Lhirin? Sir Yanin?” Irah continued, her tone suddenly shifted from weary to ponderous. She wondered who would speak up, what ideas would be proffered, if now assured of their competence (or, at least, one would hope) Lady Bor offered new information or the like? There was something about Rodoria’s adventurous spirit that went to her head like strong wine whenever she was here–in hindsight, she felt a little sheepish at her monologuing at Caleb. Still, nothing to do for it now, and the point she had wanted to make… well, it had been made. It had to be Caleb’s choice to listen and to let hope win over despair. Freagon… well, that needed a longer chat. It certainly needed tea.

Vela listened to Yanin and – going into significantly more detail – Irah's report of the situation without opening her eyes, her body-language speaking of regret and relief in equal measure. It might be easy for Irah and Lhirin to forget with how they were mainly used to dealing with other deigan, who were as ageless as themselves, or humans, among which even the ancient-looking were rarely as old as them, but penin lived quite long lives. For a penin to seem as old as the baroness did, chances were that she was nearly three hundred years old, which would make her far older than either of them. Given the stories they might very well be familiar with since they were here now she had spent at least a human lifetime as an adventurer with the Melody of Freedom. As much as the two deigans had a wealth of experience that was already beyond what was achievable for most humans, old Vela Bor had likely seen more than both of them combined.

“Assistance will not be necessary,” Caleb supplied when Irah reported on his intention to return to the Neverrealm and the probable willingness for one of them to kill him to send him on his way. “I can break my tether to this vessel by my own will... though I suppose I can let you slay me, if you worry that I will try to trick you. So you know for certain that I am gone.”

Only once Irah finished the last part of her did the penin open her eyes, her posture straightened and the heavy weariness that had assailed her was pushed back through sheer force of will.
“The scout, as you say, returned just a few minutes ago,” she told them, her demeanor abruptly turning focused and disciplined. “I'm glad that you're already rarin' to go get Bren, 'cause I was going to ask for your help. I'll be going myself, along with at least two of my hired hands. We already know where they took him.”
“The mages might need rest first,” Freagon spoke up from his place by the bed, seemingly much more attentive now than he had been throughout their conversation with the thalk, “but the boy and I are ready to go. Probably Sir Yanin and his boy, too.”
Vela nodded her head, a bit curious about just what had happened in the short time since this group had been introduced to each other. Irah and Lhirin were the only ones that had actually introduced themselves to her yet, so she was able to deduce that the “Lhirin” Irah mentioned before was likely the abbreviated version of Lhirinthyl, and the old knight's reference to Sir Yanin as someone other than himself suggested that it was likely the human swordsman... which meant that Irah had prompted those two to speak, but not this nightwalker. She wondered why.
“You will be rewarded for this, too, of course, and there is more to discuss... though I think it would be better to save it for when everyone is present. Time is of the essence, and Quintin probably has more answers for you than I do. For now, I'd like all of us to assemble in front of the manor.” She shot a sidelong glance at the fallen angel. “You, too, Caleb. Even if we couldn't use all the help we could get, I'm not cruel enough to stop you from finishing what Feevesha gave her life to do.”

"Good to know," Jordan had acknowledged when Jaelnec affirmed that he and Sir Freagon didn't need a break. So it was at least five (or six, counting the divine) people against ... how many exactly? He thought the local Fadewatcher his master had been speaking to said something about sixteen, which meant there were probably more; Sir Yanin himself would probably have better idea than he did from merely overhearing.
It would be preferable if the bandits could be apprehended alive, somehow (if there even was someplace to effectively contain them here), or the healer be freed and escorted out beforehand and then the bandits be dealt with, whatever it entailed... In the end, they had to be equally ready for things to turn nasty.
What had they even needed a healer without any apparent other 'hobbies' for? Enough that they'd get several of themselves killed to take him alive? Did their leader's significant other fall ill or something? No, if something like that was the case, they could have just walked in like normal people...

Nabi scratched at her jaw again. "The idea of 'being able to see me' could be hard to assure, if we have to go into a forest or somewhere similar. I will try and remain in sight, however. I will be honest, it is not you or Sir Yanin that I have concerns about. It is those of less martial culture." She noted Jaelnec and Freagon's readiness - or at least Jaelnec's assumption of readiness for the both of them - with an approving nod.
"That is good... As for you, madame," Nabi looked at Madara in turn, "it may be best to possibly stay here whilst we are out hunting - doubtless your healing skills are needed. Further... forgive my bluntness, but too many people in a tracking party has a habit of making both too much noise and attracting too much attention. I do not doubt that we are all skilled and versatile people here, but... a general does not send their entire force to scout - only those who are the best at doing so, and the quietest to avoid giving away their location. I feel that we in turn should act similarly."

If there was a change of mood in Madara's mien, it was hard to make out definitively, though as before, her one eyebrow arched slightly as Nabi spoke. "I do have pending business to attend to back at the local Fadewatcher station, and I make no pretense of being a fighter of substantial prowess past what comes with my blood. I'd not expect my skills to be required before you engage - but once the fight's upon you, the little time anyone wounded might have is a definite risk you must assess."

Jordan didn't really have time to respond before being distracted by the small figure of their temporary employer coming to sight, and hadn't outwardly reacted when Lady Bor took aim at them - just a precaution, he was sure - nor did he immediately pay attention to the sounds coming from outside past the fact that they didn't seem to be of combat, simply too preoccupied with the aftermath of their fight (under Lady Bor's apparent scrutiny, no less) and the fate of the final guest.

Nabi gave a singular nod in response when he asked her to come, and followed closely behind Jordan, a hand ready on the hilt of her sabre, ready to draw it to deal with any residual threat that might emerge. One could never be too careful, lest yet another ambuscade make itself known - and there had been quite enough of those already for Nabi's liking. "I am right behind you."

It was only after Jordan had called out for the sole survivor - and had received a rather eager response indicating that the subject was likely not actively in the process of dying, followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a makeshift barricade being dismantled - that he noticed Lady Bor latching onto Jaelnec and ... inquiring where the rest of them were? Oh.
With them being tasked to deal with the wraiths and guests, it hadn't actually even occurred to him that Baroness Bor might be expecting an explicit statement on the fates of his companions, too, in part precisely because nothing severe had happened to any of them. Sir Yanin and other superiors, as a rule, tended to take silence as a sign of exactly that, since any death or injury would need to be relayed immediately.
Ultimately, it was Madara, stood waiting by the door Jordan had just entered, who further supplemented Jaelnec's hasty reassurances: "None of those who entered with me suffered an injury that needed tending to, though the mages might need a rest before using a significant quantity of magical energy once more."
Somewhere deeper in the corridor, the guest was done shuffling around furniture and was now busy unlatching and unlocking the door. There were also voices coming from outside, however, both exited and - for one male voice - grim. Someone had arrived with news, then?
Jordan wasn't quite willing to leave his position - not before he could ascertain for himself the guest was in one piece and still human, at least -, but deigned it appropriate enough to look back past the doorframe, where the lady of the house had let go of Jaelnec and hurried toward the stairs. He could probably confirm whether there was one less missing person, at least ... and, incidentally, it might also be a good idea to give those upstairs a slight heads-up.
"Lady Bor?" he shouted after her as she was already midway up the stairs, "Has the tracker returned?
"Quintin," Madara specified.
"What? Ah," the squire was momentarily confused, but raised his voice again, "Uh, Quintin, I mean. We were told one of your men went to track the bandits."
Lady Bor paused just long enough to reply without even looking behind herself, "Yes, Quintin is back."
"Got it, thanks," he replied, and immediately snapped back to attention as the door to the final guest's room swung inwards, revealing what looked like perfectly ordinary, slightly disheveled human man, if one in a bit oddly chosen attire.

The man had returned? Then the bandits - or whoever Nabi was needing to track - had either slipped away, or were not far, and could be - if swiftly pursued - caught relatively soon. Nabi looked at Jaelnec and then to Lady Bor. She opened her mouth to speak, but the penin had already hurried off. Nabi growled and swore in Erashyiri under her breath, before turning back to Jordan, her look one of grim determination. It was as if something had switched in her head - her training. You always fell back on it.
"Then after we are done here - and let us be quick - we find this Quintin and talk to him. Clock is ticking. And I need to know what he knows."
Jordan simply nodded with a brief glance in Nabi's direction, jaw clenching. No dallying. Yes. That much didn't need repeating.

“Thank the Primes, the gods, and of course thank you, my fellow heroes!” the red-headed fellow greeted them with arms spread wide.
My fellow heroes? Well, just aren't you in a jovial mood now - in stark contrast to the grotesque still-life behind the squire. Not that he could entirely blame the guy. Some people were just glad to be alive.
And, regardless of hiding being ordinarily seen as shameful for a ... someone who had probably claimed to be capable ... it was doubtlessly the right call, though. It didn't take having Sir Yanin's ability of assessing others' martial prowess to jump to, Yep. You'd have been killed. Absolutely. That would just be another wasted life atop the already too many.
“I tried my best, but there were just too many of them, so I retreated to this room to, uh, regroup!”
Who are you trying to convince? Honestly, if the rest of the situation weren't quite as severe, the appearance and overall demeanor of the guy would have been almost comical, more in line with a 10-year-old kid playing dress-up than fit for a man a dozen or more years his senior.
Well, you had to start from somewhere, some just slightly later than others. Jordan himself had been a peasant kid who had decided to tack himself onto a somewhat unapproachable member of the family he was serving, after all. But what was up with the knick-knacks?
"I am certainly glad you haven't been turned into a ghoul, mister...?" Jordan settled into a more conversational tone, if somehow, still appearing slightly taken aback. He left a bit of a pause for the man to fill in his name. "Are you unhurt?"
You are not a ghoul, right? Unlike the confirmed ghouls, he did not appear visibly injured, or in any way like a ... well, corpse. Then again, corpses only started looking like corpses after a few hours; it hadn't even been enough time for the bodies (or what was left of them) to cool down and start to stiffen. Could ghouls mimic breathing? Having a pulse? How likely were they to remember that humans tended to blink every now and then? One probably quite definitely wouldn't know what name a body would have had before it was appropriated, yes?
"Tedwyn, my good sir!" the man responded. "I'm a bit bruised from my, uh, epic battle against the table-monster, but nothing serious."
"Epic... battle. Hm. Yes! It must have been quite the conflict." Nabi's hand moved away from the hilt of her sabre, relieved that this man at least was not a direct threat.
Tedwyn seemed encouraged, perking up and thrusting out his chest. "It was! I almost had the cretin, too, but I had to retreat before I could, uh, deliver the, uh, killing blow!"
Do not encourage him too much, he might actually believe it and become tempted to come along and try to fight the bandits, the human squire thought to himself. This fellow didn't appear, how'd you'd put it, ready for real combat. On the more positive note, he also didn't appear like a ghoul.
"Right," he said - more just as a filler to gather his thoughts than in the way of an actual reply, "Good; then why don't we head outside? I hear we have news."

Nabi fought back a smirk. Her sarcasm had bounced off of the man's inflated ego... but even now, she didn't quite have the heart to puncture his dreams with any further cutting comments. Thankfully, Jordan had given them the perfect excuse to extricate themselves from the situation - and her mind instantly switched back to the man Lady Bor had said had only just returned from pursuing the bandits.
"Yes. We do. Mister... Tedwyn?" The name did not roll off her tongue easily. "If you need assistance with any injuries from your... valiant struggle... I believe we have a healer with the others. Myself and Mister Jordan, however, have business with one Mister... erh... Quintin, yes. We must go, if we hope to act quickly."

The survivor's response was immediate, "Gladly!" ...And he just marched out. (Oh well.)
Jordan simply looked at first Nabi, then Jaelnec, then Madara in turn, "Eh, shall we, then?" He didn't really wait too long for replies before hurrying after the survivor; it was more rhetorical. Nabi rolled her eyes and headed off behind Jordan, muttering colourful phrases under her breath in Erashyiri... Madara shrugged and followed after the others.
"Jordan Forthey, Fadewatcher and Squire of the Glades," he began as the group outside came to sight - awfully many introductions today. "Lady Bor went to call the others, I believe. What's the situation?"

Throughout the business retrieving the sole survivor out of all of Baroness Bor's guests Jaelnec said nothing and did very little aside from just being present, watching and listening while shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. This was how he was used to acting and how Freagon demanded he behaved most of the time – to let more experienced and competent people handle important business and concentrate on learning through observation – but he was unsure whether these people expected more from him.
Truthfully, he wanted to do more. Jaelnec wanted to be more than just a passenger riding along for someone else's adventure, more than someone that just watched others brave mortal danger, perform heroics, and earning gratitude and admiration. How many times had he dreamed of himself in his master's place; vanquishing horrifying monsters and terrible evils with ease, saving would-be victims from mortal danger, all without even a hint of fear or hesitation?
But in the end he was still just a page; according to Freagon, Jaelnec was not ready for more than that. Jordan had been made a squire by his master and had already distinguished himself in the battle against the wraiths and ghouls. He did not know anything about the two women, but they both seemed quite comfortable taking more active roles in proceedings as well.
Out of everyone there, the one Jaelnec thought was closest to his own pathetic place in the world was probably this Tedwyn-fellow, obviously just pretending to be a fighter and a hero, only to barricade himself in a room and hide while crying impotently when danger presented itself. Was Jaelnec not the same, walking around with a sword on his hip like a warrior, only to stay behind and let everyone else face the danger while he cowered in safety?
He was disgusted with his own weakness; though he had sparred with his master daily for fifteen years, he still could not last more than a handful of seconds against him before being beaten to the ground. At this rate he would never be ready to be named Freagon's squire.

Jaelnec made sure to return the truncheons he had been carrying around uselessly as their half of the party made it through the armory of Bor Manor on their way outside, which delayed him a second or two in catching up with Jordan, Nabi, Madara and Tedwyn. He arrived as Jordan finished introducing himself and was starting to report the whereabouts of Lady Bor.
Outside, along the cobbled path serving as the approach to Bor Manor, they were met by the sight of what was left of the staff of Bor Manor. The three of them they had seen on their way in: the muscular man who had rung the bell and spoken to Madara earlier, but who had not offered his own name, only named everyone else; the well-groomed man called Wade; and the rotund woman in an apron named Kylie. Those three were crowding around a fourth man, who they might surmise was most likely the one called Quintin.
Quintin stood taller than the people around him, looking to be nearly a full two meters tall, with long legs and athletic physique, and looked like he was probably stronger than anyone else working in Bor Manor. He was clad in a greenish brown hooded cloak, with the hood currently being swept back, which seemed big enough for it to easily wrap around his entire body while still allowing him enough room to move. He as clad in a light suit of brown brigandine as well as armored boots, gauntlets and greaves and carried a dull-gray great helm tucked under his right arm. His left hand clutched a war bow, matched with a quiver of arrows on his right hip, and he had a slender longsword sheathed on his left hip along with what appeared to be at least three different daggers.
He looked to be in his late forties, with shortish, messy hair that was half-brown and half-gray, and struck an imposing figure. Unlike pretty much every other fighter they had met in Borstown, unless you counted the baroness herself, Quintin appeared to be completely unharmed despite the tribulations he had been through... which suggested that the dark-red splotches on the hem of his cloak, his gauntlets and the chest of his armor was not his blood.
The three others seemed overjoyed that their fourth had returned, but Quintin seemed a little uncomfortable with all the attention. He instantly switched his focus to Jordan and his half of the party as soon as they appeared in the doorway and appeared to listen intently as Jordan spoke, staring at him with sharp brown eyes.
“Quintin,” he introduced himself, speaking quickly and clearly. “The bandits took our healer to an abandoned farm about an hour's walk north of here, on the other side of the forest. In addition to the sixteen survivors from the raid on Borstown, I counted at least another ten. They didn't seem in a hurry to leave and had several patrols in the area, but it's clearly not somewhere they've stayed for long either. They have horses; if they leave, we probably won't be able to catch them.”