“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.”

The nightwalker briefly looked startled at being addressed, but quickly brightened up and accepted his hand, thanking him.
"Fifteen years, was it?" That was a long time to be a page indeed. Fifteen years ago he would have been ... nine ... four. People typically became pages between six and eight (maybe four wouldn't have been that extreme?), and then squire at fourteen or so, or at any age if they were essentially nobodies like him. And then they were knighted or just ... stayed squires indefinitely.
He wasn't entirely sure how old Jaelnec was - he looked roughly his age, but with how aging worked with different species, he could have been quite a few years older, and Deo'Irah could have been a youthful two millennia strong. He thought he recalled nightwalkers aged slower than humans?
"We kind of overheard everything, just by virtue of being, well, here," Jordan explained somewhat apologetically, glancing sideways at Sir Yanin, who seemed to be simply waiting and keeping watch stood next to the door, back to wall, head turned slightly to the side as if he was listening to steps approaching the door from within in addition to observing the street.
"Knighting is usually a public affair for a reason. Prevents people from making claims if something were to happen. Can't see why it'd should be different for naming one a squire." His master commented.
That was a point, Jordan guessed, though he wasn't nearly as concerned with the ceremony as the more personal part of the conversation. The lesson about why one fought and ... did Jaelnec seem genuinely afraid of his master? Are you okay? Well, it's not like he could ask with Sir Freagon standing right there. Better to stick with a more neutral topic.
"I never was a page since ... well, being a peasant I grew up weeding cabbages and being chased around by the geese I was supposed to herd as opposed to serving a knight, up until mother decided I could best help out eating someone else's food and earning money by being the Glades' stable boy when I was eleven." Jordan shrugged, spreading wide the arm that wasn't holding onto the spear. "Which kind of also means I sort of knew Sir Yanin for a few years before he even was a knight, which is also kind of strange to think about, now. It's been three years since I was made a squire, and about two since we left the Glades' estate. It somehow feels much longer than that."



The street seemed comparatively tranquil, in spite of all that had transpired. Some passersby stared. At him, at the guardhouse, still stained by blood. He watched their motions, and memorized their faces. Some he could only hear, not see, some were but shadows cast from behind structures.
The younger nightwalker and Jordan now seemed busy talking about their lives as they waited. They were quite loud. It made listening more difficult. The healers were yet to re-emerge. There was faint movement from inside, talking. Lady Bor and Quintin had also vanished, having returned to the manor to restock. Time was running out.
“It is time. He has someone to protect now, and someone to protect him. It isn't just the two of us anymore.” It was a strange statement. It was one thing to determine that one wasn't able to stand on one's own were you deeply engaged in the moment and unable to intervene. That could happen even if Freagon alone fought.
Was it merely that they intended to be split into three (or four, counting Lady Bor providing cover separately) groups this time around, with them having to keep both their employer and the main subject of their mission alive, and the two being both on site? Jaelnec could not be grouped with Freagon; he wasn't Immune to the swaigh.
If Freagon was as bound by principle and shibboleths as he let on, he wasn't liable to go back on it during whichever encounter the nightwalkers would have next, even once this little merry group had scattered to all four winds.
It could also be simple as Freagon himself getting older; no matter how powerful he was now, he was also scarred, and looked to be at least middle-aged. No doubt the man with the broken soul was more experienced than ever before, but purely physically, he was probably not as fast, strong and agile as he had once been, and knew it.
"You've fought alongside others before." During many of which, Jaelnec had undoubtedly been quite young, if not yet to start accompanying Freagon, but there would have been at least one in the last five years. Some of the knight errant's endeavors had stood enough to be somewhat more broadly known, though for someone of his reported skill, one could be surprised not more had reached either the ranks of Fadewatchers or scheming nobles. "What has changed?"
For a man who'd conduct a ceremony in the middle of the street rather than wait until the storm had passed or let his apprentice take arms without it, 'Fuck it, maybe he'd be more useful than not' probably wouldn't be the reason.



Irah would find Madara sat beside the man with the formerly shattered arm, quietly instructing him to keep the splint on for a week, to not lift anything heavier than a mug with that hand. The bones were set, and the magic of the deigan's potion had knit the ends together, but they were still weaker - a stronger impact could shatter them anew more readily than fully healed bones.
She didn't break script; only once she was done speaking to her patient did she stand and turn to address the other healer.
"That should be most of what we can do at this time - except for Wade's leg and- ah, I don't think I caught your name," she motioned to catch the attention of the Fadewatcher that had spoken with the human knight earlier who had a bandaged arm. The more severe injuries had been dealt with, but perhaps there was yet some time until the baroness was ready to embark.

“Fifteen years,” Jaelnec said with a nod of his head when Jordan asked, confirming the duration of his pagehood; an excessively long time by most standards, though he obviously would not know if things were different for others in the Knighthood of the Will specifically, of course. The only other person he knew who had ever been a Page of the Will was Freagon himself, and according to the stories he had heard, Freagon had been a page for five years... only to practically skip the rank of squire by undergoing his Test and becoming a knight as soon as he was made one.
Upon Yanin commenting about the bestowal of titles being a public affair, Freagon shrugged. “People already think I'm lying about being a knight. What difference would it make to have more witnesses to a fake knight naming his fake squire?”
When Jordan turned the subject to his past and his origins, Jaelnec's smile faltered somewhat, though he bravely kept trying to hold on to the happiness from before.
“I suppose I was more privileged in a lot of ways, but similar,” he told him, a shadow settling over him as his mirth kept seeming to drain moment by moment as his thoughts turned to the past. “My Mom was a priestess of Laon and my Dad was a wizard, so I did a lot more studying than work when I was a child. Still, we lived in a small village – one with pretty much just nightwalkers – so I worked like you did, too.”
He turned his head to look at his master, though he did not do so obviously and in an effort to redirect of anyone anywhere else, but just because he felt prompted to look at him. “Sir Freagon found me when I was ten. He saved me. I had been out in the woods collecting mushrooms and returned to find the village in flames. It was the Crusader's Guild. They killed everyone. Then Sir Freagon showed up.”
Turning back to Jordan, Jaelnec repeated: “He saved me, and took me with him away from there. I've been with him ever since. I owe him my life.”

As Yanin pointed out that this was not the first time Freagon – and by extention Jaelnec – had worked with others and asked what had changed, there was a slight, barely noticeable hesitation before Freagon replied.
“Time is running out,” he said simply, leaving what that meant up to interpretation.

Usually, people lied for personal gain. In more deplorable cases wealth and power, in more unfortunate cases just to preserve rightfully earned possessions, health or life - their own or loved ones'. What would be the motivation behind lies here? Stolen valour would, perhaps, be the obvious answer. Contraindicated by the fact that Freagon could have sincerely earned enough of it by deed. He was capable enough, there was no disputing that. So why?
Naturally, many others before him would have noticed the discrepancy - and Freagon seemed well aware of it, yet he continued speaking in the dead knighthood's name and following its ways. Not in an apparent attempt to re-found it - there would be more transparent means of doing so -, but as someone who simply claimed to be. To still stubbornly go through the motions with no cause when everyone had already concluded you were operating on false claims would be delusional.
One'd expect the nightwalker to think there was a difference, even if circumstances couldn't seemingly be made to make sense. The burden of proof would, naturally, fall onto the claimant.
"If it didn't matter and no one believes it, then why bother?" Yanin's tone of voice didn't seem to have changed, but he turned his head a little bit - presumably to be able to see Freagon properly, rather than from a slit by the corner of his eye. There was a short pause, followed by the obvious question. "The Knighthood of the Will is supposed to have been extinct for more than a century and a half. How?"
Nightwalkers lived longer than humans - but not so much longer to still appear middle-aged after nearly two hundred years.

'Time is running out' was an all too familiar sentiment.
Time for saving the healer was running out, if it hadn't already. Time for the members of his family he actually cared about could be running about - Sir Jeran especially, now that several of the other older siblings, himself included, had moved out or been effectively banished. Javien was still there, though he didn't seem to give too much of a damn. Too convenient, perhaps. Safe. Strange dark beasts had been seen lurking back in Etlon. Heck, time for the peoples or Rodoria could be running out, either by the Withering or war. Time for what was running out for the nightwalkers?
For most of those things plaguing the human knight, the exact deadlines were indeterminate. Some expected to arrive sooner, some later, but ultimately still unknown. The timing was odd. This year? This month? This week? Today? Not before, not in the evening, now, in the brief intermission between tasks. It implied hurry.
"When will time run out for you?" Did he himself know?


There was a brief shadow over the nightwalker once the talk tuned to his - or Jordan supposed their - past. One that didn't go entirely unnoticed.
Jaelnec's childhood seemed ... nice? Almost to the level where they could be the sort who sent a child to study with an actual knight, as opposed to just sticking with one out of sheer stubbornness when older.
Not that Jordan could complain too much; it was only after his younger siblings were born - after six years of suspecting that he might remain an only child and his mother had been rendered barren by his birth - that things started getting tighter.
His oldest sister had been barely enough to carry food for the chickens, the two-and-half and one-year-old obviously couldn't do much, and then his mother was heavily pregnant with a fifth sibling and also couldn't do much. So his father and him had to do all, and his father couldn't both work the fields and earn money...
With the Withering, the demand for many things you could produce to sell with a dozen cattle, some birds, a horse and a couple medium-sized fields had gone down. Butter, young cattle, milk could still go for enough to be worth the effort, vegetables less so. Every year, it felt like enough farmers dropped that there were just fields of crop no one was left to care if you took from, until a couple further years had turned them back into wilds, domain of snakes and hares.
But they needed money. Salt, tools, cloth, fat for soapmaking if they didn't butcher any of their own animals, the horse was getting older... So that was that. He was off to work somewhere that made money and didn't spend the family's own fabric, leather and food.

It was only when Jaelnec continued that the reason for his dampened mood became evident. He wasn't with Sir Freagon out of his own free will, or that of his parents. He was there because his parents were dead and the knight had happened to be there and took him along.
Oh.
"I'm sorry," the human squire noted, sadly. "I can't say I saw much of my family one I was placed with the Glades - not until first my middle sister, then my father fell to the Withering and mother started demanding I go back..." Which he, a fresh squire back then, had not, and what for? His mother could manage the household, and his remaining siblings were old enough to help out now. They'd furthermore lose most of their income, which was, ultimately, his paychecks. "Can't imagine having gone back one day and them being all gone, with no warning, just like that." Sometime during his reply, his head had dropped slightly and his eyes had fixed themselves onto a particular pebble in front of his feet.

Owing someone your life, being in debt like that... Was a dangerous thing. Maybe. Perhaps. Especially if ... the someone might have been a not entirely nice person. Jordan stopped scrutinizing the particularly interesting pebble and looked up at Jaelnec once more, once more with a mildly apologetic smile.
"As for how I ended up with Sir Yanin, then that is a mess of entirely my own doing. Sometimes I still wonder what did I get myself into, since I for certain couldn't last a whole ten seconds against my master. Maybe if he was only allowed a wooden butter-knife and no armour, and I was allowed to keep everything I have on now." He shrugged. "He used to get around a fair bit earlier on - and the first year after I became a squire. Mostly Rodoria and Wegam Fermos. The last two we've been mostly stuck in Etlon, serving as Fadewatchers... I don't suppose Sir Freagon is the type to stay in one place for long?"

“It's all right,” Jaelnec said, content to smile at Jordan's recounting of his origins rather than dwelling on the tragedy of his own. The phrase itself was mostly a lie – obviously his family being dead was not even remotely “all right” – but it served to assure his new companion that it was not something that was actively tearing him apart. At least not right now. “I've been with Sir Freagon for most of my life at this point, so in a way I guess he's been my new family. And with the Withering and the civil war... yeah, terrible things happen everywhere, all the time. It's much more productive to focus on trying to keep things like that from happening to anyone else.”
Jaelnec continued listening to Jordan's recounting a little about him and Yanin with a small smile, only for that smile to somewhat falter and him to glance nervously at Freagon – whose hand subtly twitched, but otherwise mercifully refrained from reacting – when Jordan called Yanin his “master”. One of the things Jaelnec had learned very early in his relationship with the old knight was that he hated that word with a passion. Not being called “master” was one of the few entirely irrational things Freagon was adamant about.
“He doesn't, no,” the young nightwalker confirmed Jordan's suspicion regarding their traveling habits. “The only time we've stayed somewhere for more than a day or two was if one of us got sick or injured... or to lie in wait for someone he had decided to slay. So it's mostly just been the two of us.”

Freagon listened to Yanin's questions with his usual stone-faced stoicism, still facing Jordan and Jaelnec and not obviously looking at the other knight.
“Because I am a Knight of the Will,” he stated simply in response to the question of why he bothered. And, a moment later when Yanin asked how Freagon had claimed such a title when the order had reputedly been extinct for as long as it had, he said: “It is not extinct. I am here.”
Only when Yanin asked about when time would be running out did Freagon move his head, though he did so to look up at the sky rather than at the person he was speaking to. He watched the clear, bright blue expanse above, dotted with little fluffy white clouds, and felt the warm sun on his face. Breathed in deeply through his nose.
“Not today. Not tomorrow,” he then said, his tone deadpan as ever, as if even this was of practically no interest to him. “Soon.”

The older nightwalker simply reiterated that he was a Knight of the Will, and the knighthood was not extinct because he was there. That was not what Yanin was asking; he had already figured Freagon was intent on remaining steadfast on as much.
Instead of verbally elaborating in detail, the human knight simply shook his head, once, slowly, and asked again: "How are you here?"

If someone were to observe Yanin very keenly at that moment, they might have noticed that he ever so slightly lifted - just enough to clear gravel - and shifted the balance of his halberd when Freagon reacted to something, only very slowly easing it back down after nothing further had happened. (Jordan himself, being mostly focused on Jaelnec, hadn't spotted Freagon's reaction.)

'Soon' was imprecise. Perhaps the older nightwalker was being obtuse, perhaps he genuinely did not know. "Soon enough that it couldn't wait till the evening." One might expect such a rushed action before a battle one was not expecting to survive. There were plenty of records of people doing just that, granting titles effectively in advance just so their apprentices or servants would have one before they ultimately perished - or, in a stroke of extreme yet tilted luck, the subordinate lived, but the master died. It wasn't it. Not quite. "And it isn't the bandits in particular."
Freagon could realistically dispatch the bandits entirely by himself, with comparatively little risk to his own person. The man had implicitly confirmed as much himself. Not today. Not tomorrow. Any direct connection between Freagon and the bandits seemed far-fetched at this point. They were, for the most part, incidental.
Time is running out. Before what exactly happened? It isn't just the two of us anymore. So who were the others? The two deigan? The half-palanter? Lady Bor and her little town? Him and his squire? "If your understanding of the future pertains us or those people in meaningful way, I'd rather hear everything sooner rather than later. Feels like we might have to deal with the consequences, and I don't particularly like surprises."

Closing his eye and fighting back the surge of impatience and annoyance he felt rising within himself, Freagon had to take a moment to calm himself before he could deal with Yanin's questions. He was like a dog with a bone, absolutely refusing to let go no matter how much Freagon tried to keep things vague or being willfully obtuse with his explanations. It was particularly aggravating because he knew that he might behave in the same way in some situations, when he was trying to obtain information that might be important, but he did not hound people about being evasive indiscriminately. What had he done to earn this degree of scrutiny, he wondered? Or was this just how Yanin was? Would the other potential members for the band Freagon meant to form be subject to the same kind of dredging of their secrets, or was he special?
The old nightwalker actually had to take another deep breath to delay and give him more time to regain his self-control. It was not just the unwavering intent to unearth the truth about him that infuriated him so, but even more so that this behavior reminded him of an element of his past he tried his best not to think about. That creature had had the same intolerance for deception of secrecy, and had spared no effort to pry the truth from Freagon any time he had so much as attempted to keep something from him. The fact that Yanin reminded Freagon of him in any way was... not encouraging, to say the least.
But even so, Yanin seemed to be a formidable warrior, and a knight to boot. Freagon needed to assemble a party, and he likely needed Yanin in particular... so regardless of how satisfying it would have been to murder him on the spot, he had to endure. There was more at stake here than his feelings. And he had to give the human knight enough to sate his lust for truth.

The first question of “How are you here?” was one Freagon had successfully avoided telling people the full story about for decades, because people usually either decided to accept the part of it he gave them or just moved on rather than keep digging. And the few people who had kept digging, Freagon had been free to simply turn away and abstain from interacting with them. The fact that someone here, among these people, would be so dogged about it so soon after meeting him... it was rather frustrating. But he had to deal with it.
“I am a Knight of the Will because when I became one, the knighthood wasn't extinct yet,” he said, lowering his voice so that only Yanin would hear. He glared at Yanin with his one black eye, resisting the temptation to draw his sword and kill the man immediately. “I was killed toward the end, during the business with Nogon Kinslayer. I am here now because I was resurrected fifty years ago.”

Yanin's other question, though equally bothersome, at least did not pertain to information Freagon had kept to himself for decades. It was a new, fresh secret... but one that was no less painful for him to share.
Freagon glanced at Jaelnec and Jordan, making sure that they were still engrossed in their conversation and would not hear, and spoke once more in a lowered voice: “The mark of the Withering has appeared on my skin.”

There was a much longer pause before Freagon replied, markedly in a significantly lowered voice. Quiet enough to prevent their respective squires, any random passerby, or those concealed within the guardhouse to overhear.
Yet again, the older nightwalker reiterated, but the next two sentences finally broke mold. The timing didn't fit together because Freagon himself was temporally displaced. He had died, to return more than a century later. A borderline absurd statement to make.
For now, Yanin was going to continue on the presumtion that the claims, no matter how ludicrous - or perhaps because they were ludicrous - were more likely to be accurate than not. It would have been all too easy to make up a conceivable lie - a couple or two remained, went to live in Golerin for a generation and a half, didn't draw too much attention to themselves. Something like that. Still possible to confirm true or false, but more tedious - too much so for most.
To live again? Not immortality, not godhood, but enough to be coveted by many regardless. There were enough stubborn, and desperate people in the world.

"You suspect if others were to find out, they'd want the same for themselves, no matter the cost?" The human had likewise lowered his voice, though his tone changed surprisingly little. There was barely enough intonation to mark the sentence as a question rather than a statement.
Yanin didn't particularly care to find out the exact procession of events leading up to the resurrection. Didn't sound like anything Freagon had arranged in advance, and there was at least a considerable chance that it wasn't an overly pleasant affair. Outright resurrections weren't common enough to be just granted as a rare favour (as oxymoronic as it might sound), even to legendary individuals, let alone a century or more after their presumed death. Someone, somewhere, had had something desperately they wanted to do. Someone exceptionally powerful, perhaps even a full deity. And it had to have been something the entity just couldn't do itself.
"Couldn't have come cheap. Something extraordinary." Better not be a future problem for them to resolve. Fifty years was a long time; one could at least hope.

It was almost surprising, then, that the reason for time running out - at least seemingly, unless Freagon was somehow singlehandedly responsible for one of the worst disasters to befall upon Rodoria and surrounding areas in recent times - was unrelated to his reported resurrection. And perhaps ironic - that the only man Yanin had met who claimed to have returned from dead, and quite possibly the single most accomplished fighter to boot, was now plagued by the same malady that had already taken nearly third of the country.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Soon. A week, or thereabouts. As far as he was aware, there was no way to as much as stop the progression. Maybe just slow it down some, via divine healing. Deo'Irah's angelic friend would probably offer to try and help. Probably best to start sooner rather than later if he would agree to that help. And in the end, either divine taint or the plague itself would still claim him. For all intents and purposes, Freagon was a dead man walking - literally and figuratively, in more ways than one. Pity.
What's your plan? Pawn your newly-promoted quire off to the first ragtag group - if that - adventurers you find, and otherwise just ignore it until you keel over? To try and live as long and do as much as you can? To do what millions couldn't, having already undied once?
"I see." This time, there had been a longer pause before Yanin replied. For once, his tone was more grim than usual. "Reckon you have more than one decision you can't delay, then."



The nightwalker assured him it was all right, though he suspected it was one of those 'you couldn't have known' or 'it has been a long time and I have come to accept it' all rights, not really ... something that didn't hurt to bring up.
Apologizing again would probably make things a touch more awkward, so he opted against it. (He seemed to be doing a lot of apologizing today, didn't he? Well, he had expected a rather peaceful day of mostly travel, he guessed...)
"Sir Freagon as only family?" That sounded ... slightly disconcerting, not that there weren't many who wouldn't say the same for his own choice of liege. Jordan glanced at the two knights stood a handful of meters away, seemingly discussing something quietly. It appeared to involve Sir Freagon glaring daggers at Sir Yanin. Beter to leave them at whatever they were doing.
"The Galeids naturally mostly just ordered me around, if they paid any attention to me at all - aside of Sir Yanin's middle sister and his youngest brother, who mostly just wanted to always see the animals. And Sir Jeran, sometimes, not that he ever had much time to spare. So my friends were mostly just other hired help." And girlfriend, for about a year and half... "Sir-to-be Yanin was probably around the most, since he spent a lot of time practicing, but, frankly, I kind of just considered him intimidating for the first few years, nearly as much so as his father and ... the late Sir Manin, I suppose. It took some convincing from Lady Alaisi's part to convince me Sir Yanin is actually okay to ask things from, even if he doesn't look like it."

“Want the same?” Freagon repeated, scratching his deeply scarred skin thoughtfully. “I can't imagine that'd do them much good. They'd have to die first, and there aren't any benefits to it. On the contrary. I wasn't 'restored' so much as I was just 'made functional' when I was resurrected. You're right that the process was costly, both for me and the one who did it. It's why I'm still scarred like this.” He gestured to his one-eyed face. “New wounds can be healed, but even magic can't fix this anymore.”

“That sounds nice,” Jaelnec commented on Jordan's recounting of his time with his master, smiling at him even though he felt a slight pang of envy. He had a vague feeling that he had heard about the Galeids before, but could not quite pair the name with a place or a family in his mind. None of the names mentioned meant much to him either, except from Sir Yanin of course, but just hearing the names somehow made them feel more real. “You forget to appreciate having people around you can call friends. Sir Freagon...” Jaelnec shot a nervous glance in the direction of his master. “He's very goal-oriented, and has no patience for anything that isn't productive. I bet he's seething right now because we're not just going straight to the bandits. Part of me is surprised he hasn't just decided to wipe them out himself and run off on his own.”