“There is no corner of my heart I would not turn over to save the lives of the innocent. No secret kept, no resource withheld. In the sight of blessed Reina, let it be known that I would do all this and more to mend their flesh and ease their suffering. Without witness, without hope, without reward. All of this is rather waxing poetic to say something at its heart quite prosaic: I did not have to mention any of this. It would have been much safer for me had I not. Whatever questions you have, whatever judgements about my character that you make, remember how much I have sacrificed already for the sake of these innocent people, and know that I would sacrifice yet more to save them.” Irah said, her mien thoughtful and gaze suddenly distant. When Tedwyn spoke up at the mention of “reward”, her serene bearing regained the fury she had been suppressing earlier and she shot him a glare that could only be described as withering.

“Your reward is the knowledge that your inadequacy and cowardice shall betray you from within for so long as you live. You will get what you contributed: nothing.” she spoke, her tone suddenly venomous and heated. If there was one thing that she truly could not stand, it was a lack of principle: indeed, that was partially what had motivated her to be so forthcoming. Even after having known them for only minutes, really, Deo’Irah could tell that Sirs Yanin and Freagon were truly principled people, with beliefs that might be unknown to her, but whose dedication to those beliefs was evident. Everyone in the room, barring Tedwyn, had come together in a time of crisis to enact the one thing truly required of the strong: to protect the weak. Her heart might otherwise have fluttered with trepidation at the notion of being so unusually forthcoming, but something about these people… she felt among kindred spirits, she supposed. Not unlike another collective of people she was proud to be a part of.

With that delivered, she brushed herself off and gave Lhirin a gentle guiding pat on the arm not tracing over the pages of the journal to direct him while he read. It would not be the first time that she’d had to guide him while he was utterly engrossed by some knowledge promised from a tome–it certainly would not be the last, either. She took a few steps towards the exit before halting, waiting for everything to resolve before she actually visited the stagecoach to gather her things.

Quintin, Vela and Jaelnec all looked somewhat taken aback by the sheer intensity of Irah's reaction to Tedwyn's claim, whereas Tedwyn himself simply stood petrified and shifty eyed as his pretentious smile slowly faded.
Then the penin woman let out a small chuckle. “Tell you what, Tedwyn: go back to Bor Manor and help the others clean up the place. Tell them why you're there. If I come back and my people tell me you did a good job, then I'll reward you. I don't think we need you here.”
Though he was clearly trying his very hardest not to break character and continue to present himself as a jovial and confident adventurer, Tedwyn did looked a little deflated as he opened his mouth to speak, only to fail to produce any words. Instead he just croaked slightly, cleared his throat, nodded his head, turned on his heel and left without a word.
“As for the rest of you,” the baroness continued once the civilian in their midst had been dismissed. “You may not need a reward, but you're helpin' me so I'm gonna offer one regardless. I'll give you another four hundred rodlin for defeatin' the bandits, and another six hundred for getting' Bren back safe.”

---

Guided towards the door as he had been, and distracted though he may have seemed, Lhirin caught the exchange with Tedwyn, his brazenness, but knew nothing more of the man. As he ‘read’ the journal, the deigan mage heard the man’s footsteps approaching as he headed for the door, felt the faint current of air shifting as he neared. Lhirin’s right hand paused, his finger pressed lightly against a marking on the page even as his left hand shot out and caught Tedwyn’s shoulder. If the man turned to look, Lhirin intense silver eyes would be boring into his own. He might feel judged, but if he did…it was not because Lhirin had any particularly judgemental expression on his features, but rather due to his own failings–that and the sheer suddenness and intensity of his actions and gaze.

“Wait,” Lhirin said simply, his eyes boring into the man even as he invisibly cast his magical senses through Tedwyn, taking stock of the human’s soul. The man was, all told, rather normal…nothing off or particularly unique about his soul–clearly an untrained human as far as magic went, still…though Irah’s words had certainly been venomous there was something about how upset Tedwyn seemed that stood out to him. That…and the fact that no one had even bothered to ask the man if he had any useful skills. His perception delved deeper…honing in on Tedwyn until Lhirin has basically blacked out his other senses almost completely. Only Irah’s guiding hand on his physical body kept him truly grounded. He couldn’t detect Tedwyn’s affinity, but that was nothing new…it just meant that he didn’t have anything particularly unique–most likely.

Lhirin’s energy withdrew and he took a steadying breath, noticing that he was fidgeting slightly with Tedwyn’s shirt at the shoulder, rubbing the fabric between two fingers. He immediately stopped…and likely it wouldn’t have much effect on the man beyond thinking the already clearly strange deigan…was perhaps stranger than he’d thought. Not that Lhirin even considered that…or cared either way. “You answered the baronesses’ call. What skills did you bring with you?” The deigan asked, entirely out of a sense of almost dogmatic pragmatism–however…his words might be misunderstood as a chance for Tedwyn to redeem himself.

"Err..." Tedwyn mumbled, looking nervously from Lhirin to everyone else in the room, then back to Lhirin. He pointed a finger at the machete on his hip. "I can cut things?"

Lhirin’s gaze drifted down to the machete, his silver irises roving over the weapon, searching for any unique markings. Indeed, for anything significant to mark it as something other than an utterly mundane armament. It was slightly worn, looked ill cared for, but well used—though likely not as a weapon if Tedwyn’s conduct was anything to go by. Lhirin nodded slightly and his eyes darted back up to meet Tedwyn’s. He remained silent for just two moments too long, and then his hand fell away. “Mmm, nothing else of note?” he asked, but unlike someone else who might have seemed disappointed, hopeful, or derisive…Lhirin’s affect was utterly flat. Not just unreadable, but devoid of even the slightest hint of emotion, beyond perhaps the faintest flicker of curiosity.

"Uh..." Again Tedwyn's eyes shifted around the room. "I killed a snake once? I guess I can cook a little?"

“Scholarly pursuits?” Lhirin said, not even reacting to what the man had just said.

Tedwyn shrugged. "I can read and write, if that's what you mean."

Lhirin’s brows lowered faintly in an expression that was almost what someone else might consider relaxed. For Lhirin, it was about the closest he tended to get to a deadpan. Lhirin shook his head slightly, then his gaze began to drift away, his eyes slipping shut. He didn’t quite sag in disappointment, but any of that tension and intensity he’d been holding slipped away in the same breath as his gaze. “Ah. Apologies. Carry on.” He replied, sounding less and less engaged—more detached—with each word before his eyes were fully closed. His hand began to run over the journal’s page again, fingers grazing over the scratch marks with gentle, but firm pressure. A small part of his mind considered that they could use Tedwyn as bait…or a distraction. However, it seemed…ill advised and for once, Lhirin actually considered that suggesting as much would likely upset the man further. So he said nothing and ceded once more to Irah’s guidance.

Sir Yanin had wasted no time, so by the time Lady Bor spoke up, the human knight was already stood waiting by the door, looking back at the people shuffling their things around, quiver and untensioned bow slung over his shoulder and halberd in hand.
Right. Payment. They wouldn't have their regular salary for as long as they were on hiatus. Jordan didn't like asking for it, but if he didn't keep things like that mind, his mother back home would starve to death specifically in order to turn undead and come haunt him with reminders of how he abandoned his family now that his father was dead and could no longer work the fields. Credit to Sir Yanin in that he wouldn't at least let his squire himself starve, though, even if the knight's own money also ran out and he had to result shooting a deer to have something to put in the pot.
They seemed so much bolder now that people grew ever fewer.
Deo'Irah had many words for how being able to help people was a reward of its own no matter the cost. It was, in part, why he had quite stubbornly picked this path - despite his family, despite having no potential to become even half as skilled as his master (or probably Sir Freagon, from what little he had seen of him), but there was always this nagging knowledge that it was also letting someone else down. For every legendary hero, there were hundreds of people who, quite literally, died trying.
Morbidly, Lady Bor herself had pointed out that she wanted to settle it now, since there yet remained the possibility she might not make it back today.

The Viper had remained silent - none of what the baroness had said was technically a question, and any kind of administrative stuff was usually his job, anyway. Jordan had just about drawn breath to give an acknowledgement when Tedwyn (oh, right, that guy was still there) piped up.
If there ever was a more oblivious bloke walking around in Reniam ... well, just about everyone was looking as him now, some looking critical, some baffled, some outright venomous. He didn't blame the guy for having gone in hiding - it was the only reasonable course of action, the alternative of which would have been torn to shreds to no one's benefit. But the blatant lie of it as soon as a reward was mentioned... That was baffling.
And maybe it was his master's borderline paranoid caution, but a part of him also sunk. Tedwyn had heard some things that probably should have stayed between fewer people, had he not? And if he had so little integrity, then wouldn't anyone offering him any money make him spill all the beans? Not to mention that threatening him with no reward would probably work, too...
Jordan could easily guess what Sir Yanin would have said - that he had seen no evidence of it, so what exactly had he done? He looked like you as if you were being interrogated to determine if you would be sent to the gallows if you answered wrong, , but all things considered, he could be weirdly willing to let people try and explain themselves even if it felt blatantly obvious what had ensued. And then people would sputter and fail to give an adequate reply while trying to sink underground.
Deo'Irah spoke first, with much more vitriol. This time, Jordan didn't feel kind of sorry for Tedwyn.

Lady Bor's approach was slightly more diplomatic, suggesting he go and help clean up for a reward of his own. Might be a humbling experience. Or maybe not, judging how little Tedwyn seemed to have noiced of the room when he first emerged ... or maybe he couldn't ignore it anymore once he actually had to help carry off a mutilated, headless corpse.
Jordan would probably have suggested Tedwyn guard their horses, in part because it would give him something definite to do that was not trying to sneak along and alerting the bandits. Well, predominantly for that reason. The animals didn't really need guarding - Prince especially was liable to just bite a chunk out of your shoulder if you didn't belong there - but he would probably have made a decent enough human scarecrow to deter people from even trying. Scorned people were spiteful, and he both wanted him ... not in their way and also not too far, for now.
Lhirinthyl seemed to try and figure out if Tedwyn might have had any actual use after all, but ultimately seemed to decide the guy was worthless, after all.

"Right," Jordan muttered, standing as he finished gathering up his and Sir Yanin's things, "If someone needs help carrying something - up until we make the final approach, then I still have a hand free. But I am ready to go now."

As she was wont to, the half-palanter returned her focus on her work first and foremost once done with her little interlude of pointing out which of her present supplies could potentially aid the others in their new quest, only listening in as far as she had attention to spare when she took the time to inspect the results between long moments of intense focus. You didn't get good at this job unless you could hold absolutely steady and calm no matter the chaos around you. In an odd way, it was almost meditative, making sense and order from what was, inherently, a chaotic, highly individual mess.
How many people even realized that the veins on the backs of their own hands typically weren't mirrored, let alone not identical to others'? And that was something everyone with sight could see daily.
Next up, setting a jaw. Not her favourite past-time - mouth and gut injuries in general weren't -, but she wouldn't show it. Happened not that rarely with the farmer sorts around her little town. Horses could deliver a mean kick, and a lot of the inanimate farming equipment wasn't all that safe either. Not to mention the one time some young humans had gotten their hands on some firedust and attempted to use it to try to remove some of the rocks that had proven too stubborn for oxen and regular splitting by fire and cold water. Oh dear. Oh dear indeed...

It didn't take too long, though, and with the advice to perhaps avoid trying to chew anything harder for a week or so - with the amount of borrowed magical means she had to spare, the bones needed longer to fully knit - she moved to the man with a gash in his leg. With no severed tendons or fully bisected muscle, it was comparatively straightforward process, and could be done quickly, even as the little group at the back of the room seemed to be nearing the conclusion to their planning.
Angel of fear? Huh. The dainty little deigan held quite a few secrets indeed. Somewhere along the way, baroness Bor moved the topic to pay. Madara wasn't quite as inherently sacrificial as Deo'Irah professed to be - she wasn't going to turn a bleeding person away because they had nothing of notable value to give her, but she was also pragmatic enough to acknowledge that medical supplies were not without cost and providing help for free to those who could have afforded to pay for it would mean that someone else down the line would have to receive inadequate care for lack of equipment.
Tally everything up, and more often than not, her other professions ended up slightly funding her surgical career. Overall, she was ... what one might call moderately well off. Comfortable enough to allow good materials and some simple pleasures in life, but her funds were far from bottomless.
That Tedwyn guy, however, trying to profit off of stolen valor when just a moment's thought should have told him that everyone in the room already knew the extent of his contribution? Foolish, foolish man. Deo'Irah wasted no time putting her in his place. Idly, she wondered if Freagon was content to simply claim both his and Jaelnec's share for himself; it was not like he allowed "the boy" to do much, whether he truly could or not.

A few more quiet words and Madara moved to the last more severely injured Fadewatcher - if she could just set his arm, that would only leave Wade and one of the standing Fadewatchers for their return, both of which seemed a little less in need than the other five had been. Quietly, she assessed the others - a couple of whom had now stood and appeared to wait for others to follow.
"I need but five more minutes - the rest can wait till we're back," her amber eyes appraised the knight, Nabi and Deo'Irah in turn. "I am no bloodhound, but I am quite light on my feet and I trust you have no need to conceal yourselves for the first dozen minutes or two of travel?" The stench of tobacco alone would linger in the air for a handful of minutes after the party. Seemed like a quite unfortunate habit for anyone who wished to remain covert amid people who might not smoke themselves - since the sparrows in the bushes sure didn't partake. "Unless any of you yet have some supplies to gather from outside the station, or wish to accompany me as I catch up?" The last question seemed to be aimed predominantly at Nabi and Deo'Irah.
"If all goes to plan, we will be waiting anyway once Caleb is in position," the human knight noted, evidently deciding that the others were in motion enough, and after skipping a couple beats to hear what anyone replied, simply turned and stepped out of the room.

“Then that's the plan,” Vela stated, giving the table a hard smack with both of her hands as she turned and headed for the door herself, followed by Quintin. “Everyone get your things ready and meet us by the road north of here in a few minutes, and we'll go. These kidnappin' scum won't even know what hit them.”
“Boy,” Freagon called as he turned and headed for the door without so much as a glance at anyone else in the room. “Come.”
Recalling his master's declaration that they needed to talk before leaving for the mission, Jaelnec once again felt his heart sink. He had been so distracted with all the planning and drama that had been going on that he had – only too happily – pushed Freagon's ominous utterance from his mind, but unsurprisingly the knight himself remembered only too well. Though he felt every instinct in his body urging him to ignore the instruction and refuse to listen to what his master had to say, he knew that he would obey. Not only did he have to if he wanted to keep Freagon as his master, but these past fifteen years had also conditioned him too well to obedience to ignore.

So it was with an expression of fear and reluctance that the page followed his knight, walking outside, turning right and going to the side of the Fadewatcher station; barely out of sight for anyone exiting the building and heading to the street, but far from being a private place. The two of them took up positions facing each other but a good five meters apart. All the while thoughts kept racing through Jaelnec's head as he tried to predict what his master wanted... and he reached a very likely conclusion.
“Please, sir,” Jaelnec pleaded through gritted teeth, forcing himself to meet Freagon's gaze no matter how much he wanted to look at the ground, “don't tell me to stay behind.”
The Knight of the Will cocked his head, his single black eye boring into him unblinkingly. “Why?”
Blinking confusedly, the younger nightwalker was taken aback by the question. This was not how determining their course of action usually went with Freagon. “I want... no, I need to help.”
“Are you sure about that?” Freagon crossed his arms. “A dead child. The dark-skinned one mentioned the Crusader's Guild, and you're probably ignoring that we determined there isn't any evidence that it's them. You're making it personal.”
“That's not what this is about!” he declared, but was only halfway telling the truth. Of course hearing about the bodies hanging in the tree, and especially hearing someone air the possibility of the crusaders being involved, affected him... quite strongly. How could it anything less, when the crusaders were the reason Jaelnec was where he was today, having been raised by the heartless knight errant? But it was more than that, and he knew that he had to focus on that part if he was to have any hope of persuading his stubborn master. “This is what I've been training for, sir, and we're outnumbered! We need every man we can get! I can fight!”
“Why?”
Again Jaelnec blinked, even more confused than the first time he had been asked that question. “I don't... why what?”
Freagon stared at him unwaveringly. “Why will you fight?”
Shaking his head incredulously, the page asked: “Because we need fighters?”
“No.” There was a finality to the way he spoke that single word that felt like a slap to the face for Jaelnec. “I know you can fight. I taught you. But you don't need to fight. Why will you fight?”
Jaelnec made a wide, sweeping gesture with his hand at nothing in particular. “To save the healer, of course!”
“You don't need to fight to do that.” Not a muscle twitched in Freagon's face, and his posture was solid as stone. “Deo'irah wanted you to bring her potion. That could save lives. You can help without fighting.”
Licking his lips, Jaelnec could feel tears starting to burn in his eyes as the sense of devastating disappointment gripped his heart like a vise. “I don't get it. Why am I not allowed to fight? I've been your page for fifteen years! What have I been training for if not for this?”
Much to the young man's surprise, his older kinsman nodded his head at this. “That's what I'm asking. Why will you fight?”
Jaelnec let out a shaky breath and inhaled deeply, trying his best to calm himself and think clearly, to try to figure out what was expected of him. “Because these are bad people, and someone needs to fight them.”
“Why?”
“Why?!” he repeated exasperatedly, growing to hate that question more and more each time it was asked. “They killed people! They killed a child! They need to be brought to justice!”
“Then I've failed.”
Now it was Jaelnec's turn to stare stiffly, eyes wide in disbelief at what he had just heard. Though the tone was the same, the words making up that sentence was the only instance in all the time Jaelnec had known Freagon that he had heard him utter anything that sounded like admitting defeat or failure. As a sentiment, those words coming out of Freagon's mouth felt thoroughly unnatural and wrong to such a degree that his brain quite simply did not know how to deal with it.
After a moment's silence the knight continued: “I've been too focused on teaching you how to fight like a Knight of the Will. I've neglected to teach you why to fight like a Knight of the Will.”
He uncrossed his arms and pointed an authoritative finger at Jaelnec. “Anyone can fight well, boy; being a good fighter doesn't make you a knight. It's our code, our values, that make us knights.”
Heaving a sigh, Freagon shook his head grimly. “We don't make judgments based on shit like 'justice'; that word can mean anything to anyone. We don't punish, boy. So once more: why will you fight?”
Swallowing a lump he imagined to be his shame, Jaelnec straightened his back and responded with conviction: “To keep everyone else safe.”
Freagon nodded his head in approval. “Better. But saying it is just the start. To act like a Knight of the Will, you need to follow that rule. And to be a true Knight of the Will, not just in word or action, but in your heart, you need to internalize it. Believe it. Make it part of you. We don't punish, we protect. We don't fight to destroy evil, we fight to preserve good.”
Humbled by his master's words, Jaelnec could only bow his head in acceptance of these surprisingly philosophical instructions. He had never heard Freagon speak like this before, and it quite frankly amazed and slightly frightened him.
“So...” Jaelnec began after a moment's hesitation, “can I fight?”
Freagon scoffed, and started slowly walking toward his pupil. “Pages don't fight.”
Again Jaelnec felt his heart sink. “But –”
“Draw your sword.”
The fact that the knight did not pause his stride, but kept slowly and inexorably approaching, combined with that statement, was enough to prompt Jaelnec to take a step back warily. “I-I don't understand, sir...”
“Draw your sword.”
Hesitantly and confusedly, Jaelnec reached down to grasp the hilt at his side and, in one smooth motion, let the steel blade slide out of the scabbard, and took a defensive stance.
Freagon came to a stop about a meter from Jaelnec. “Kneel, take off your hat and place the sword on the ground between us.”
Jaelnec's eyes widened. “You mean...”
“I told you,” the older nightwalker grumbled impatiently, “pages don't fight. Kneel, Page Jaelnec of the Will.”

Trying his very best to do so with a measured pace and some semblance of dignity, Jaelnec followed his master's instructions and knelt before him, and reverently placed his sword at the knight's feet. Meanwhile, as Freagon towered over his ward, he drew Roct from its scabbard and let its pristine blade gleam beautifully in the sunlight.
As Jaelnec lowered his head and looked at the ground, Freagon raised the sartal sword and touched the flat of the blade to his forehead. They held these positions for a couple of seconds before Freagon asked: “Infant, what name did your Will take?”
Jaelnec answered without hesitation: “My Will is Jaelnec, for my Will and I are one.”
“Child, through whom did you learn your Will?”
“My Will was taught by Sir Freagon, and his page I remain.”
Freagon nodded his head approvingly and lowered his sword so that the opposite flat of the blade was resting on the top of Jaelnec's head. “Man, who will let you touch your Will?”
Uncertain whether he was about to start crying or laughing, all Jaelnec was sure of was that he could not stop his voice from trembling: “My Will shall be brought by Sir Freagon, and his squire I shall be.”
“Death before dishonor.”
“Dishonor before disloyalty.”
“Disloyalty before evil,” Freagon spoke the final line of the declaration. “Show me if your Will can guide the future.”
Freagon moved his sword, took a step back and sheathed Roct. “Rise, Squire Jaelnec of the Will. Let's get a move on; we've got bandits to kill.”
“Are you sure about this, sir?” the other asked as he retrieved his weapon and stood. It was a little weird since he had been the one trying to convince his master to let him fight, but this development was much more drastic than he had expected. “Do you think I'm ready? I can barely last even ten seconds against you...”
“You're looking at it wrong,” Freagon asserted, not looking back as he started walking off. “You can almost last a whole ten seconds against me; most petty bandits won't stand a chance.”

Deo’Irah nodded along with Madara’s words, her crimson gaze meeting the piercing amber of the surgeon’s. When the questions were directed at her she spoke quickly, though with a warm and eager tone. “While you finish up I shall gather my things, and we can be ready to travel together.”

She left shortly after Baroness Vela, Quintin, Yanin, and Jordan had–after having fussed over Lhirin idly while movement quite rapidly ensued following the end of the conversation. She made sure to direct him to leave with her, staying with him just long enough that he could safely navigate the enclosed space without taking his eyes off of whatever had grabbed his attention in that moment. Once outside she began a determined stride off towards her stagecoach, though she was stopped ere long by the sounds of Freagon and Jaelnec’s private conversation. She’d meant to fetch the potion and give it to Jaelnec, perhaps offer him some encouraging words, but it seemed that would not be necessary (and nor, she felt, her place). Her pace immediately slowed, albeit didn’t stop, until she got some of the tone and content of the words being spoken and her curiosity got the better of her. She swivelled quickly until just in earshot of the event, unsubtly eavesdropping with an apprehensive stare.

She did not speak or make any move to intrude upon the event, resolved only to step in if she thought Jaelnec was being mistreated in any way, but the conversation took an unexpectedly earnest and vulnerable tone that turned Irah’s apprehension to admiration. It was difficult to admit when one was wrong when one was possessed of true conviction, this she was no stranger to, but Freagon seemed the particularly miserly type. For him to offer an earnest nugget of such wisdom meant something quite profound, and it made Irah feel a little quiver of regret for being even peripherally present for such a touching moment. Only a quiver, though–she was far too invested in knowing what happened to let sentiment stop her.

As the ceremony begun, Irah quickly turned away and resumed her journey to the stagecoach–that she did not feel entitled to bear direct witness to, and she did have preparations to make. She greeted Armos with a gentle pat, quickly reaching into a saddlebag attached to him and withdrawing a small fruit they’d picked that morning en route to Borstown before offering it to him with an open palm. He took it gently, as he always did, and Irah gave him a few soft strokes on his side as he chewed. That done, she opened the door to the stagecoach and began to rummage within, looking amidst the clutter for the things she’d mentioned. She found each of them in turn, taking only a moment or two thanks to her familiarity, and returned to the front of the Fadewatcher station in time to see Jaelnec as a new person–a squire, now, rather than a page.

“Here is the healing potion that I mentioned, if you want to take it.” Irah offered, holding a tightly corked glass vial tied with a white silken ribbon. The ribbon was tied in an ornately decorative knot, such that it helped seal the cork within the neck of the vial, and Irah looked at it quite intently as it was proffered. She didn’t want to assume Jaelnec would still need it, given recent events, but it would be silly not to at least offer–and after a few seconds she brought her gaze up to stare into Jaelnec’s distinctive eyes with a wide smile on her face. She did not say the word “congratulations”, suddenly somewhat bashful and uncertain if it was her place, but her beaming smile radiated an almost-motherly affection that she hoped would speak for her. The whys of it mattered little, in her mind–it was plain to see that Jaelnec was starved of positive validation. She would be happy to offer him some to accompany the occasion, and to give him someone to show off to–everyone needed that.

She would offer him instructions if he accepted the vial–to use as small an amount as possible and wait, observe, and administer topically–and would keep it in her hands if he did not. That done, she continued apace to return inside to rendezvous with Madara and potentially Nabi. If Madara still had work to do by the time Irah returned she’d immediately step forward and offer to help in whatever ways were needed–and if not, she’d wait patiently for those assembled.

The seemingly ever-permeating scent of blood and smoke of this day diminished once he stepped outside. Much nicer this way. Back to wall, observing, listening.
It wouldn't be a good day, though with skill and favourable arrangement of circumstances, it could still be a successful one. The Viper might have been a fighter par few if any, but he didn't fancy himself an executioner. The foes he had eliminated earlier were either already dead or could not be killed - or both, depending on your perception.
The others seemed to be taking their time, pouring out one by one. As he had implied earlier, Freagon took his page to the side (followed by a somewhat concerned glance by Jordan, who stopped to somewhat awkwardly stand next to his master; other observers might note he only started to look more awkward, occasionally sending sideways glances at Sir Yanin as they, somewhat incidentally, listened to the 'conversation' between 'the boy' and the nightwalker knight, as it might have been).
As far as Yanin was concerned, Freagon probably intended to interrogate his student on his knowledge, and he wasn't getting the reply he wanted. Bit odd time to do so, but as long as the others were still scrambling about, he was content enough to humour them. It wasn't like they had anything better they should be doing as they, in effect, waited.

Only once the conversation shifted and the recitals began that Yanin seemed to start paying more than cursory attention to it, ever so slightly tilting his head towards the commotion (he had not misremembered; there was 'dishonor before evil').
So much for, 'I prefer him not to'. Freagon seemed to adhere strictly to the tenets of his knighthood. Perhaps to a fault. Did not bode well for Jaelnec, from what he had read of the Knighthood of the Will, presumed extinct centuries ago.

Once they were done, Deo'Irah went to hand her potion to Jaelnec before disappearing back into the depths of the station, presumably having the two nightwalkers return to their midst - finding the impassionate armored statue of Sir Yanin Glade and nearly as amoured, but contrastingly somewhat uncomfortable-looking Jordan Forthey.
"Well. Congratualations on your promotion?" the human squire offered with a faint smile, still slightly awkwardly as he wasn't entirely sure it was his place to have overheard the ceremony, switching his spear to his left hand and holding out a gauntlet if Jaelnec actually appeared like he might take it.
Yanin was much more practical, only noting, seemingly more to Freagon than Jaelnec himself, "I guess he fights now."

Jaelnec's eyes widened somewhat in surprise when Jordan addressed and congratulated him, but only for a second before he broke into a wide grin. Somehow during the short time that had passed since Freagon had named him his squire, the excited, nervous energy that had filled him had already mostly dissipated and his new title almost slipped his mind entirely.
Part of it had obviously been the fact that his meeting with Irah had occurred between then and now, which had apparently been distracting enough to chase it from his mind. The entire conversation with the female deigan had taken quite the toll on him, truth be told; not only had he had to memorize – or try to, at least – the instructions on how to best apply the potion that now rested securely in a pouch on his belt, but Irah herself just seemed to be unerringly distracting to him... and that was without her so overtly looking him in the eye and smiling at him, driving his mind wild with fantastical speculations as to what exactly she was trying to convey.

“Thank you!” he told his fellow squire, eagerly grasping the offered hand firmly. “I guess it hasn't really sunk in yet that I'm actually a squire now... finally, after all these years!” He laughed, the elation that had left him when he spoke with Irah returning. He was also secretly grateful that his eyes made it hard for people to see where he was looking, because he could not stop himself from scanning over Jordan's armor and feel a twinge of jealousy and shame at how shoddy his own was by comparison.
Freagon had his usual air of indifference with a hint of impatience, but did turn to look at Yanin when he spoke up. “He does,” he confirmed grimly. “It is time. He has someone to protect now, and someone to protect him. It isn't just the two of us anymore.”