Though he did not outwardly react to the question, a small frown did briefly touch Quintin's face when he turned to look at Nabi as his eyes swiftly scanned her up and down.
“Going alone would be a bad idea,” he told her bluntly. “I mean no offense to you, Miss, nor do I doubt your skills, but I doubt you'd be able to learn anything I haven't already from watching them for nearly five hours.” He licked his lips. “As for observations on patrols, there were on average five patrols an hour, consisting of two or three hostiles. There were some vague patterns to their movements, though nothing that suggested planned and assigned routes. I'll draw a map and share as much of what I learned as I can once we've gathered everyone that needs to know.”

In response to Jordan's comment about the baroness being likely to return soon, Quintin nodded his head. “I expect the same, Squire Forthey, but I already left the Lady once expecting her to be safe only to return and find that her home had become a battlefield. You will have to forgive me for not taking it on faith that she'll be safe if I left her a second time so soon.”

Caleb expressed dismissiveness of Deo'Irah's attempts at trying to forge a new pact of some kind, and asserted, once more, that it was quite ... resigned, perhaps, to the perceptions the denizens of both realms were bound to have of it.
It was strange, then, to comprehend how apparently similar both worlds were, despite appearances (or lack thereof). In the end, the only difference between them was that divines were not liable to truly die. Not like deigan - indeterminate though their lifespans were, deigan were just as mortal as anyone else. Caleb, in turn, had an eternity to sort its existence out, so a more permanent form of enslavement might have indeed been the only thing the fallen angel truly feared.
Evidently it was no quicker to trust any chance encounters than he was, and it was fair.

Caleb seemed to agree that subterfuge when dealing with the approach of the lady of the manor was ill-advised and ultimately futile. Freagons reply, if a bit superfluous at this time, was thematically a bit more interesting. He had cited what was a part of the code of the supposedly-extinct Knights of the Will, Yanin believed, and asserted that truth was the honorable and loyal option. There would typically also be also 'evil' in that chain, would there not?
Perhaps it was a matter of irrelevance to the scenario, not of any significance. It hadn't taken long for the old nightwalker to bring up his order again; the question was, then, how truly did he believe the tenets he swore by, and what his personal interpretation of the more subjective aspects of it were. Truth was truth, there was no changing it. Loyalty was, for the most part, straightforward, however too freely given by many. But honour? Honour - or at least components of it - were up to interpretation. And, unfortunately, so could be aspects of what one considered to be evil.
As for how to handle the matter with Lady Bor, though? In the end, the talkative lot had taken long enough to contemplate that it ceased to matter entirely.

The penin had made her entrance, giving the room an once-over, then relaxing. Evidently, she knew Caleb, and took but a second to deduce what had taken the lot of them half a dozen minutes. It made things simpler, if just. There was no telling whether most of the town would be as understanding of the fallen thalk's continued presence as Lady Bor was.
“Is it over?” she simply asked.
"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."
Deo'Irah gave her own, much more elaborate overview of the events, "[...] Lhirin? Sir Yanin?"
"That's the gist of it," the knight affirmed. The wraiths could have been all Feveesha's, but this detail was most likely not relevant, and Caleb took it upon itself to remind them that it could just depart on its own. Earlier, it had outright stated that not only could it, but short of magically binding it there, they would not even had means of stopping it.

So the scout was back. Unlike the others', Yanin's apparent demeanor - what little of it could be seen through the armour, anyway - didn't seem to change, though he, at last, opted to re-sheathe his sword as he listened.
Lady Bor would be coming with, along with who exactly? The butler and the cook - if that was what the two unarmoured folks outside had been - were hardly suited for the task.
"The bell-ringer and the scout? If I am not mistaken, the former is already injured." Injured people were more liable to make mistakes, and vastly more liable to die. You only got them involved in extreme need. The scout had been a while from what he had gathered. Could be a long way to limp over, even after Madara and Deo'Irah had done what they could. It had been implied the female deigan was quite spent. The male, if he'd seen and interpreted correctly? Perhaps not, though his rationality could be impaired. Seemed a bit rash even before.
As Freagon lumped them both under "mages", Yanin actually turned his head to look at Lhirinthyl.
"Do you?" he inquired. If he was right, he didn't, not really - but the unpredictability could prove an issue. "We can't ascertain we have the time to rest. I don't have anything to recover from; neither does Jordan."

"Caleb, can you wear garments other than your own robe?" he - quite abruptly - addressed the thalk as Lady Bor quite explicitly invited it to come outside with the rest.
The matter of the town's opinion of him remained, and Caleb itself had said it couldn't move and keep up a magical disguise. As far as Yanin was aware, thalks always seemed to come equipped with their particular robes, and as far as he knew these robes might have been literally parts of their actual bodies, not garments at all. In any case, with the height already making them stand out, the robes did little to make them even more distinct, even before you saw their claws and red faces. Something different, even if it ended up having to be atop of the robes, could help.
People talked. It was inevitable.

Now, if Caleb could be in position and wait before they make a move? If the bandits had no mages, it should be a while before it would become noticeable.

“The 'bell-ringer' is called Cole and the 'scout' is Quintin, but yes, that's who I meant,” Vela Bor replied to Yanin's comment regarding the people she wanted to bring to save the healer. “Don't get me wrong, I really don't like bringin' folk who're already hurt, but we're severely outnumbered. I'd be happy to let Cole stay and recover safely here, but everyone else's gonna be in more danger for each sword-arm we leave behind.”
“We don't need them,” Freagon declared from his place by the bed, and though his implied arrogance was likely expected by some of them, his justification might not be: “I vote to leave the wounded. Let's get through this without any more dead townsfolk.”
“We'll discuss that when everyone's together,” Vela sighed. “We've options, and none of 'em's good.”

When Yanin addressed Caleb about the possibility of him wearing clothes on top of his robe, the angel chuckled. “Do you want me to wear something else?”
Barely had the words left his lipless mouth before the robe shrouding his body seemed to spontaneously liquefy, becoming an amorphous semi-corporeal blob rapidly shifting in shape and color. A second later the blob solidified again, only for Caleb to now be wearing a resized replica of Yanin's own clothes and armor.
“But I am not sure any clothes will disguise me adequately,” he then mused, the hint of humor from before having already left his voice. “But if you give me two, or maybe three hours at most, I could have enough energy to teleport wherever you want me to. I can even bring the rest of you, if you want... though I would have to warn you that you would be exposed to some quite powerful divine magic. Taint may be an issue.”
“If he's with me, the townsfolk will understand,” Vela interjected firmly. “No point in fussin' over that.”

The seamstess and surgeon halted ever so briefly on the doorstep as she took in any changes in the interior of the station since she departed when the bell called and her eyes adjusted to the comparatively dim conditions inside - a process that was significantly quicker for palanters than humans, and noticeably quicker for half-palanters.
Palanters had no vision in complete darkness, and they couldn't see nearly as clearly as nightwalkers on moonless, overcast nights - but their winged forms especially seemed built for nocturnality (or perhaps crepuscularity), so a nice, full moon with a clear sky might as well have been comparable to a sunny day for a human but for the deepest of shadows, and actual sunny days tended to register as rather annoyingly bright, though not enough so to send them reeling unless they were unfortunate enough do look directly into sun or its clear reflection. It might have also explained, though, why no palanter in existence had found exquisite beauty in the sparkling of fields of snow on a crisp winter day or the glimmer of the sea during high noon. Just a hunch, that.
The dead had been moved - into the basement the human knight had briefly visited, she presumed - and there were a couple townsfolk in the room who had not been there before, presumably to aid in whichever small ways they could. She and Irah had already done what they were able for the ones with the head injury and slashed shoulder - they'd be fine with only very minimal loss of function, at least physically, given time and no further trauma - which left the three others who were bedbound, the Fadewatcher with injured arm who was still standing, and the one of Vela's men with an injured leg, who was yet to come along.

"Fortunately, I can assure you no further harm came to baroness Vela Bor or those serving at her residence, and her manor is once more safe for its inhabitants" she addressed the room before anyone could inquire, her tone surprisingly soft and reassuring even in spite of being projected enough to carry towards the back of the station. "Quintin has also returned from scouting, and my unlikely companions appear to be discussing going to liberate Bren as I speak - they should be arriving here shortly to further formulate their plan. I might need to depart along them, but until then, I'll do what I can."
There was a brief pause, during which she slightly bowed her head once more, and strode into the station, only briefly halting if she were to pass one of the comparatively well off Fadewatchers, and touching her fingertips to his shoulder to catch his attention. "Several of baroness Bor's guests seem to have been less fortunate; two remain, unharmed," she noted under her breath. It was these men's business to protect the place, fair if they had a more detailed overview. "The manor was overrun with wraiths and ghouls, though they were dispatched swiftly."
She didn't linger long enough to allow for a reply.

She returned to the side of the man with broken jaw and missing fingers - it was him she had left her things with when the alarms called, and his injuries were subjectively the most debilitating. Intrinsically, she considered hand-injures quite unfortunate indeed. It was what she used most in her trade - either one of her trades, really - and the same could be said for many other professions. And for humans, it would be borderline permanent. The And a jaw injury? To be barely able to speak, or eat...
"Let me," she asked - nay, informed - him, carefully picking up his hand and observing the injury. "I could try to restore your hand - though only if I had the actual fingers, she murmured - you can hold up or wave your other hand," It had been long enough that it was stretching it, but the weather was not too warm, and she had both her own medicine and the vial Deo'Irah had let her borrow.

---

The deigan mage listened to Caleb’s story and the subsequent discussion—as well as taking in Ms. Lady Bor’s arrival. As events played out Lhirin’s gaze intermittently shifted between individuals as he took things in. By and large he was using the ongoing conversations to distract himself from the mysteries that surely lay within the book he held in one of his delicate deigan hands.

When Irah actually addressed him he glanced her way for a moment, then to Sir Yanin as he spoke first. For his part, once the knight had finished, he simply shook his head perfunctorily before bowing his head respectfully to the penin.

“I am ready,” he stated simply, his words slightly rushed with the faintest hint of breathlessness to them. His too-wide eyes narrowed slightly as he focused. “I need no time for recovery. It—I believe—would be prudent that we speak to this…’Quintin,’ debrief…as it were, and then depart post haste if all are prepared.”

Lhirin paused for a moment, his head tilting before he glanced at his companion—Irah. “Perhaps…if the trail to Bren is not a short one, you could rest during transit,” he suggested, trying to think of a solution that allowed them to arrive most expeditiously without not having all of them at their best.

Lady Bor confirmed the identities of the people she intended to bring along, and attempted to justify bringing the injured to battle. "[...], but everyone else's gonna be in more danger for each sword-arm we leave behind.”
"Not necessarily," asserted the human knight. "Mistakes risk others as much as yourself. There would also be no one left in town if we brought even the half-capable."
There was a particular reason why Yanin chose being a guard and investigator over being a soldier - further than just having to pick something when he was de facto getting evicted from his home before things would get even more foul. He was a fighter, not an executioner, and certainly not one to stand by and just let others get themselves killed. If you brought exhausted, injured, or vastly outclassed people... In the end, much of your attention and skill went to defending those weaker than you, and not being the most effective in dealing with your true objective.
Freagon seemed to agree. As stated, for the same approximate reasons as him.

The angel laughed when he asked if it could wear something else. So the robe did appear to be a part of it... perhaps. Made it easier for them to somewhat impersonate others. Good to know.
"And it takes no effort to maintain even in motion?" he inquired - quite impassionately for someone faced with a slightly oversized replica of oneself, though just as quickly specified, "Preferably something nondistinct. I stand out. Some might say one of me is more than enough for the world, and replicating particular individuals is generally seen as bad taste." The height would seemingly be harder to change. "It's mostly for people who see you at a glance. Not sure we have two or three hours. If anything, it might be beneficial to have you waiting long before we make a move."
Lady Bor deemed the exchange unnecessary, opting to rely on her influence to override people's usual inclinations.
"It's not your loyal townsfolk I am worried about," Yanin said, simply.
No one could know several hundred individuals adequately, and furthermore she had invited unknown elements to the now-compromised location. Who knew if any of those could perhaps indirectly result Lady Bor inexplicably not waking up one morning, several months later.
Far too few people in the world one could trust.

The male deigan shook his head when he inquired if he needed rest. So he had interpreted correctly, it would seem. He seemed to stumble over words. Was that typical of him? Fuck if he knew. Seemed coherent enough to try to come up with solutions, though practicality remained to be seen... Resting while they were moving? He didn't think there were roads in the direction the bandits were off to, though he had approached from a different direction, so he was going off of barely more than presumptions here. Did he intend someone to carry her the entire way? Take one of the animals hand have someone ride with her? You could technically sleep like that. Poorly.
"There's not much left to do here." Literally. The room didn't give off the same eerie sense of back off the makeshift morgue had - maybe because the only apparent sign of someone's demise was the blood on the ground, maybe it was the others, maybe it was the sunlight streaming in from the window ... but, in the end, he had gleaned all what was to learn from here. Business awaited elsewhere.
"Deo'Irah? What would you say? Are you and your companion forthcoming?" She could - should - want to clarify what the business with her companion before they go somewhere in the public. If it would last into battle might be especially relevant; he wouldn't exactly know how much or how long piaan would affect a deigan of Lhirinthyl's constitution.



Quintin appeared to be measuring Nabi up before quite matter-of-factly shutting her proposition down, though admittedly, he also answered her questions. Oh, good, Sir Yanin and you might get along quite nicely. Or at least they seemed to speak much in the same way, based on the brief interaction. Well, admittedly, the knight wouldn't probably have taken the time to specify that he didn't doubt her skill, nor seemed taken aback by attention other than giving off an air of nondescript annoyance Jordan had long figured was just his normal state of being without any particular meaning to it.
It didn't appear the foreigner had anything to say in return - perhaps being taken aback by the apparent abruptness of Lady Bor's ranger. "We should have some paper at least, so I can get that prepared," the squire said - though he was mostly looking at Nabi to gauge her exact reaction.

Quintin reasserted why he wanted to linger, though... Why was he here, then, not going through the manor along with Lady Bor? Or sweeping the building personally? Had she ordered him to wait or did he expect trouble from the outside, from the bandits perhaps, much like had been their first thought when the bell rang? There was a brief pause during which Jordan tried to determine if Quintin was the kind of person to patiently wait outside just because he was told to, merely by looking at him.
"Two people have confirmed that there should be no soul left in the building other than those upstairs with my master and Lady Bor, at least - now that Tedwyn is out." No, that doesn't mean I'm summoning you. "But understandable. I'll go prepare what I can."

"I guess you should come, too ... will be easier to plan if the whole lot is around one table," he muttered to Nabi before half-walking, half-sprinting towards the station, detouring to their animals.
"Sorry to keep you waiting here," he muttered, patting his horse before placing the truncheon (should have probably have returned it before now, though it might have been from the station to begin with ... looked like one of those made to order for the Fadewatchers, anyway) and silver sword to ground, and going to rummage for the absent pieces of his armor.
Greaves, gauntlets, cuisses and a sallet helmet... He opted to start from the leg armor, though not before repeatedly running his hands over his face and through his hair.
"It really should be more common for knights to have two squires, would make it much more easier," he muttered as he twisted himself in an attempt to latch a strap, "Er, and there is a well across the street if you would like to make use of one." The same one Deo'Irah had earlier used to call forth the water she had brought to the manor.
Jordan had only fought living water and animated diningware, but the ghoul had managed to get some of its recently-human blood on Nabi, which ... well, coagulating blood didn't feel the most pleasant on one's skin, and it'd feel even less pleasant once it dried. He would know that from experience. It would probably be more than an hour before they'd need to fight something again.
He would leave the gauntlets and helmet for later - actually, he might have to put the latter on for a bit just because he would be running out of hands shortly (and the gods forbid he just walked back and forth multiple times). The bow, the arrows, the crossbow, the bolts - all of them and their quivers -, halberd, spear... Quill, ink, couple papers (those, like the halberd and bow, technically came from Sir Yanin's things, but Jordan was reasonably sure he wouldn't mind; managing things was his business as squire). Or actually, it would be easier to just bring Sir Yanin's entire backpack inside with the ammo and gauntlets stored within. Yes.

A few minutes later saw Jordan and Nabi entering the Fadewatcher station, Jordan carrying a pack and two full sets of weapons he carefully placed on and against one of the tables in the back before producing a paper, an ink bottle and a quill, taking off his helmet and locating his gauntlets (again).
There were a couple civilians here who hadn't been present before - should he ask them to leave, or? Should he sit down and wait? Tell the local Fadewatchers what had happened in the manor?
"I already informed the people here with the gist of what has been ensuing", the half-palanter noted from her position closer to the entrance, preoccupied with one of the injured Fadewatchers' hand and having apparently once more employed one of them to be the light source. Her long fingers served to hold several strands of some kind of barely visible thread, a vial and at the same time, two of what looked like curved needles and a small hook of some kind. She didn't even look up.
"Right. Is there anything else we should help with before the others arrive?" Simply standing around would be kind of useless, too.



Human hands didn't really have much muscle in them - indeed, there pretty much was only the one at the base of the thumb; the other fingers were moved solely by a delicate arrangement of tendons connecting to muscles in the lower arm. It made hands less bulky, more able to grip and fold ... and it also meant that if you got your fingers cut off, then she would need to slice open your palm to try and retrieve the corresponding tendons. They didn't just hang out like cut rope, they retracted back in their housings like startled eels.
Luckily, the locals had had enough sense and presence of mind to recover the poor man's absent fingers, so reconnecting them, one whitish bundle of sinew at a time in each, was what she was busying herself with. Though, since she was not a savage, not before numbing the man's entire hand (and half of his arm, and also paralyzing the appendage for an hour or two - albeit that was mostly incidental) and purging both the hand and the severed digits of whatever debris and decay might have tried to take hold to the best of her ability. And informing both her patient and the bystander she had roped into being the mobile lightsource that just perhaps, they shouldn't look too closely at what she was doing if they didn't have prior experience, lest they started feeling queasy.
She had gotten around to having largely attached the second, middle finger, briefly bending it between her own fingers to see if the tendons moved as they should, when Jordan and Nabi made an entrance. Other than her brief remark about filling the folks in about the gist of what had happened, barely seemed to notice the arrivals. Content with the progress of her work, she proceeded to close the skin in tiny, neat sutures.

Deo’Irah inhaled sharply through her nose as she began a pattern of controlled and practised breathing while she listened to the others, and considered events yet to come. The Baroness Bor suggested bringing those yet able-bodied alongside them, and Sir Yanin and Sir Freagon both indicated their disdain for the idea. Irah agreed with them; their usefulness would be slight, and the risk would be immense. Leaving Borstown without adequate protection–if one could assume it had adequate protection to begin with, given all that happened–was unconscionable, less so for the well-guarded Baroness in her big house with her staff but for all of the people of the village who relied on the grace extended by the Fadewatchers and the Baroness. Too many children had already lost parents and families lost breadwinners–to say nothing of friendships, of loves, of all the things that might was supposed to protect. Irah would not allow more to be taken from these people who had already suffered so much if she could at all help it.

“I doubt it will be that simple, Lhirin. There is likely not a road for us to take the stagecoach, and it would be too conspicuous either way… Sleeping on Arvos will probably not get me the restfulness I would need to replenish my reserves. I agree with Sirs Yanin and Freagon about not bringing the wounded, Baroness–they have suffered enough. They will be liabilities, and I would not have them throw their lives away for their childrens’ sake if nothing else. I am inclined to come along, Sir Yanin, if only so we have at least one extra healer–if Bren is injured, he will need attention. It would be foolish for Lhirin to waste the piaan he consumed, too. Let us rendezvous with the others and have this discussion with everyone caught up to speed, hmm? Lady Bor is right that we have limited options, but… There is a path through this. We will find it together.” Irah stated, though more hurriedly than she had before–and her voice was less impassioned than it had been previously, replaced with something less intense but still fierce in its own gentle way: hope.

Sir Freagon’s justification did not surprise Irah too much–from what little she remembered of the Knights of the Will, they were supposed to be great heroes. Freagon was an arse, yes, but he took his vows very seriously. To have a page like Jaelnec who still wasn’t promoted to squire… Irah suspected the weight of duty was heavy on his heart and mind, and that his age only exacerbated that fact. Cynicism, in her experience, was how the aged and weary protected themselves–for the nature of the world was just as cruel as it was kind, and it had no regard for the values of its inhabitants on any individual basis. The older one got, the more mired in regrets and woes… Vela Bor was a clear example of that. There was a weariness about her that was only found in those who had suffered and lost a tremendous amount–it was the same kind of sullen resignation that Deo’il sometimes got when Irah would ask him about Gazzeralesh as a child.

With that spoken, and a couple of seconds of quiet contemplation, Irah began to move forward, as if to lead them out of the room and rendezvous with the others. She was happy to take the lead if none of them would, and would continue heading downstairs until something or someone stopped her.

Indeed, there was not much more to do in this guest bedroom, and just moments later it would seem that there was little more to do in the manor as a whole, as Jaelnec arrived to convey that the surviving guest had been secured and that everyone were convening at the Fadewatcher station. They stayed in the manor only long enough for Caleb to alter his garb to be less eye-catching while also concealing his nature – to fit the company he found himself in, he opted to don a bulky suit of dusty brigandine armor, a full helmet, heavy boots and gauntlets, and even conjured a bearded axe to hang from his belt – before setting off. Caleb also explained, though the facts would be evident once he started moving, that altering his outfit like this was technically not “magic” for him, almost effortless and would require nothing of him to maintain. To avoid misunderstandings, the thalk also revealed to them that though it now looked as though he was wearing heavy armor and a weapon, everything he had formed this way was just for show and actually no more durable or protective than the flimsy cloth of his robe.

Outside, the group found the baroness' manor staff waiting for them, including the recently returned scout, Quintin. Though he had seemed stiff and reserved when Jordan, Nabi and Jaelnec had spoken to him, Quintin seemed to immediately relax and even smile a little as soon as Vela Bor stepped out of the door. There were introductions as appropriate, with the new arrival once more introducing himself simply as “Quintin,” and then quickly made their way to the Fadewatcher station. Whether because Jordan mentioned him or for some other reason, Tedwyn tagged along, too, albeit somewhat hesitantly.

Once there, Quintin – after receiving the paper and writing utensils with an expression of wonder, handling them with excessive care and remarking that he had planned to just draw in the dirt with a stick – quickly cleared a table at the back of the station and went to work drawing a map of what he had seen. As soon as everyone had assembled around him – with the baroness standing on a stool beside him to see what was going on – he started reporting what he had seen.
“As I already told some of you, the bandits are staying in an abandoned farm past the forest north of here. It took me about an hour to get back here on foot, and will likely take as long to get there from here. We will have to go on foot, too; the direct path there is too densely wooded for horses, so they would only slow us down.”
Vela nodded her head, tapping one bone-clad finger on the tabletop thoughtfully. “Could we go around the forest to the west or along the road to the east?”
“We could, but it would be a major detour. It would likely take longer to go around the forest on horseback than to go through it on foot.”
Quintin leaned over the table again and tapped on the rough annotated map he had drawn. “I counted at least twenty-six bandits moving around the area, but obviously I couldn't get a good look inside the buildings. Most activity I saw was centered around here –” He pointed to the shape annotated as “barn”. “– and here.” He pointed to the smaller shape annotated “farmstead”. “I saw some of them bringing out horses from the barn to graze in the dilapidated fields to the north, but aside from bringing the horses out and back in through the main doors, people mostly used this side entrance.” He pointed. “I think the majority of the bandits are staying in the barn, with maybe a handful or so in the farmstead. I haven't seen the ones wounded in the attack around, so I'm guessing they are either being cared for by Bren – our healer – or dead and discarded somewhere.”
He sighed. “I got there too late to know for sure which building Bren is in, and they didn't move him anywhere that I could see. Patrols came through about five times an hour, two or three men in each, not following any identifiable routes, but generally moving along these paths.” He quickly traced several lines across the map to give a rough idea of their patrol patterns.
Leaning back from the table again, Quintin crossed his arms and frowned. “They are rather well-equipped for bandits, too. Almost all of them are wearing gambesons, chainmail or both, and their equipment looked appropriately maintained. I saw spears, halberds, axes, swords... and at least three crossbows and a handful of war bows. They seemed pretty cautious and alert at first, but by the time I saw my chance to get out of there they had calmed down some, so they might not be fully on guard anymore.”

Upon entering the Fadewatcher station once more, Irah’s crimson-red eyes glinted in the firelight as she surveyed the state of the wounded once more. She was drawn first to Madara, who was currently helping one of the men become reunited with his lost digits–and Irah couldn’t help but observe the process with keen interest. She’d seen things like it before, though Deigan hands were surpassingly delicate even by the standards of hands and the swiftness and neatness of the work Madara was doing impressed her. She knew better than to interrupt an artist in the middle of her work, especially something as fiddly as this, and so she placed herself somewhere unobtrusive but with good visual access. She could observe this with keen interest and simultaneously listen to the scout Quintin’s report on what precisely was happening with the bandits–and though she did not vocalise her willingness to assist in favour of listening, she would move to assist Madara if at all requested in whatever ways she deemed helpful.

Irah nodded along as they described the densely wooded nature of the route and that sleeping atop a horse or other beast of burden was not going to be a viable option–she’d expected as much. She observed the drawings Quintin laid out with keen interest, and even keener interest that Sir Yanin (or Jordan, she supposed) would carry such things with him. She’d expected a journal of some kind, something to take notes, but it seemed that the knight was really quite exceedingly prepared. She felt a twinge of admiration cross her face as a wry smile formed on her lips, and then Irah tuned back into the conversation at hand: some 30-odd–better to estimate up to 40–bandits with decently maintained equipment and enough sense to have some order to their operation.

This was certainly not a run of the mill operation–a loose collective of bandits wouldn’t number much past ten without intelligent leadership and a steady stream of profit or other resources. They were bold enough to have attacked a guarded settlement, too, intent on taking the healer specifically. Given the ease with which they’d thrown away the lives of their compatriots, Irah suspected that it was the leader or someone close to them who required the attention of the healer–otherwise such a risk would be the height of foolishness, and their organisation was such that she did not feel comfortable assuming that.

Whatever motivations she could glean from this limited information were… imprecise, at best–and such hazy guesses were a poor foundation for a solid plan. She’d let the others bring up their observations first, though she did direct a question to Quintin:

“Forgive me if this seems… out of place, but could you observe anything about the moods of the patrolling bandits? Alert, of course, but… eager? Dismayed? Did you catch any snippets of conversation? If we discern something about their temperament, it may point us towards the ‘why’ of this situation–and if we know why they’ve done what they’ve done, that will surely point us in a good direction.” Irah asked, her gaze still fixed on Madara and her work but her words sounding no less present for it.