Dark Jack

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Upstairs Guest Bedroom, Bor Manor, Borstown

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

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

Jordan, Nabi, Madara and Jaelnec – Traversing Bor Manor, Borstown

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

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

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

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

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

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Bor Manor, Borstown

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

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

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Bor Manor, Borstown

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

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

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

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Bor Manor, Borstown

“Not yet,” Caleb replied when Yanin asked whether he intended to return to Drigall, “nor could you stop me if that had been my intent. Feevesha sacrificed herself to bring me here, and I will not waste the body she gave me by letting it turn to dust without doing anything worthwhile. I will return willingly to exile eventually, but not yet.”
The fallen, vaguely Melenian-like thalk seemed to pause at this, clearly had something more on his mind, but allowed himself to be distracted by Yanin asking about the spirit in Freagon's sword.
“A mundane,” he declared after just a moment's hesitation. “It feels... odd. Undead, yet not. Very powerful.”

With that out of the way, Caleb seemed to return to his previous question: “May I simply walk out of here? Leave this building, leave this... is this a town?” He glanced out the window next to him as if only now becoming aware that there was a world outside these walls. When he looked back, his eyes, sharp, wide and attentive, shifted rapidly from Freagon to Yanin, to Irah, to Freagon and back to Yanin. “You say you will not kill me if I do not cause undue harm and that you do not wish to use me as a slave or a tool. If so, if I tried to leave, would you stop me?”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Bor Manor, Borstown

Caleb kept staring warily at Freagon until Irah started getting closer, at which point his eyes started shifting between the two, though his stance seemed to relax a little as the deigan spoke, seemingly somewhat mollified by her words and demeanor. Freagon's stance relaxed the rest of the way, too, as he sheathed his dagger – he had not intended to use it, after all, he merely wanted to show them that the blade was silver so they knew he could have thrown it rather than a coin, had he really wanted to – and stepped further into the room, heading for the west corner or the room and thus away from the angel and toward the bed.
Divines, he thought bitterly, looking down at the still-bloodied sword in his hand. Their sharp senses were really bothersome under the best of circumstances, and had turned out quite problematic today in particular. It was one thing that Caleb had mentioned that there was something different about him – in truth he expected to feel the faint familiar tingle of one of the mages magically reading his soul any moment now – but chances were that the others were not going to respond well to being told that there was a spirit in his sword. It did not bode well for their prospect as future allies.

Arriving at the side of the bed, Freagon proceeded to reach out and wipe his blade on a relatively unsullied part of the otherwise ruined quilt, finally cleaning his sword so that he might put it away; he did not think he was going to need it anymore. But even as he did so, he clenched his teeth and had to stop himself from sighing audibly at the internal admonition he levied at himself: yes, news of the sword was likely going to be a point of conflict, but he had not exactly been at his most pleasant either. The whole debacle over him throwing the coin, and likely him just kicking down the door earlier as well... he knew that these people probably disliked him at this point, which – annoying though it was that people could not just be rational about such things – probably made them less inclined to keep working with him. He could have handled things differently: he could have apologized as Irah had demanded; he could have abstained from justifying him injuring the angel by pointing out that he could have killed it; he could have spent a few more seconds communicating with the others rather than acting on his own initiative without consulting them. He could, but... stuff like this was why he almost always worked alone. Why people did not like him.
Even now, as Irah poured her heart out trying to make peace with their divine quarry, all Freagon could think about was how the thalk was probably re-accumulating power with each word she spoke. His every instinct told him to cut things short; that the only way to negate the threat of this creature was by slaying it before it regained its strength. His fingers itched to put a dagger in its face, to sever its neck with his sword, to impale it and destroy its heart; anything to send its spirit back where it came from, where it was not a threat to anyone. Part of him insisted that he knew better, that these amateurs were going to get themselves killed unless he acted on his own to protect them. But he knew that they would not understand, let alone agree with him.
No one understood, which was why no one liked him, and most people hated him. He was not right; he was defective and broken. He had come to accept this decades ago, and had resolved to walk a lonely path through this life... until he met Jaelnec. The boy had changed things. For the sake of a future that might be, he had to find a way to make this work. It was not going to be easy, but Freagon had never shied away from a challenge before.

“Do not offer up your energy so willingly for my sake, and certainly not your life,” Caleb replied to Irah over in the corner, just as Freagon returned the now-clean Roct to its scabbard. “I may be Fallen, but I am still mostly a thalk; as long as I do not move, I can siphon nigh-limitless divine energy from the Neverrealm. And truth be told, I do not even want to be here.” Caleb cocked his head. “But if what you say is true... may I leave?”
Freagon kept listening in silence, and went to search for the couple of rodlin he had thrown from the floor.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, and Yanin – Bor Manor, Borstown

Caleb shot Lhirin an incredulous look when he asked it why it appeared to be frightened. “Why? Because I am outnumbered and cornered, and now I have even lost what little power I had managed to accumulate by staying here.”
“Besides...” He pointed at Irah. “She is a summoner, and that man –” He moved his hand to first point at Freagon, only to then also point west, toward the bedroom next door. “– and someone in there, I have never sensed anything like them. Not to mention that his sword –” Again he pointed at Freagon. “– has a spirit in it. Destroy me if you want, but please do not trap me like that again.”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jaelnec, Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Nabi, Yanin, Jordan and Madara – Bor Manor, Borstown

“How many ghouls did you create? In the future, it would best if no more were released – that, as a rule, won't be tolerated –, but for now, I am just trying to confirm the fates of everyone who was supposed to be in here, though I suspect I have already deduced.”
“Five. But...” Caleb answered Yanin's question. There was a brief pulse of divine energy in the air that Freagon, Irah and Lhirin would all feel, but it vanished as instantly as it began and lasted for but a fraction of a second. Immediately after, the thalk raised his hand and pointed to the east and a little toward the floor. “I sense a mundane in that direction, inside the building. I sensed it earlier, too. It did not attack, so I ignored it. I figured the wraiths and ghouls would find it sooner or later.”

Later, after Freagon had thrown his second rodlin and Yanin and Irah both had chastised him for it, Caleb used the time they spoke to get back on his feet, though he still seemed a little dazed.
Freagon merely listened to the words directed at him in silence, the visor of his helmet even more expressionless than the face behind it. Meanwhile his left hand moved at his waist, depositing the last two coins he had originally retrieved from his coinpurse back where they came from. His body-language did not change in the slightest, though he did lower his sword a bit further, dropping into a somewhat more passive stance.
“If I wanted to assault it,” he grumbled impatiently, “it would be dead.” As his left hand moved away from his coinpurse, Freagon snatched up the hilt of the dagger he had sheathed there and deftly brandished it so they could see, presenting its silver blade.
“Besides,” he added a second later, a dangerous coldness creeping into his voice, “it did try to kill us. Fair is fair. The fact that I made it move was an unexpected bonus.”
He very deliberately did not utter anything that could be interpreted as an apology.

“I am... fine,” Caleb hesitantly uttered as he awkwardly resumed the his stance from before, albeit seeming even more huddled now, as if trying his hardest to physically shrink away into the corner. His voice was trembling. He stared at Freagon with wide, brightly glowing eyes. He glanced at Irah for a second, questioningly, before returning to fix on the nightwalker. “I understand. I can... appreciate the candor.”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jaelnec, Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Nabi, Yanin, Jordan and Madara – Bor Manor, Borstown

“I concur with her; as long as I can remain reasonably confident you have caused no undue harm to anyone in these lands, there is no reason to detain or send you back,” Yanin said, which made Caleb tilt his head curiously and shift his glowing eyes to look in the direction of his voice.
“Undue?” he repeated, sounding somewhat confused. “Some men came before you, a couple with silver swords. They attacked me, so I killed them. And I summoned frentits into their bodies. In the other dead, too. I figured that since Feevesha had apparently already created wraiths, it would suit her plans to reinforce them with some ghouls. You decide whether that is undue.”

The thalk's gaze followed Yanin as he revealed himself, staring at him stiffly and coldly from his place huddled in the corner. He watched him very attentively and overtly, making no attempt at disguising his own continued wariness.
“I am Sir Yanin Glade,” the human knight stated, simply. “Here's to hoping the day ends better than it began.”
Again Caleb cocked his head, and though his face was not all that well-suited to making expressions or showing emotions, his shoulders sagged a little more, his knees bent a little, and his face turned to the floor at Yanin's feet. The fallen angel just stared at the bloodstained floor in silence.

“Would you happen to know if any of the things in the room - other than the furniture - are not Feveesha's?”
Caleb raised his head again to look at Yanin, then slowly, in a manner that seemed almost lethargic, swept his gaze back and forth across the room, scanning it without moving from the spot.
“Aside from the furniture, and the things you brought here,” he said after several seconds' worth of looking and contemplating, “were likely hers. I cannot be sure. I was not familiar with all of her possessions, and some of them...” He raised a hand – revealed as the long sleeve fell away to be quite large, with long fingers that were each tipped with a hooked claw, and clad in the same red skin as his face – and placed it palm-inward on his chest. “...may also be inside my body.”

Abruptly, with barely a movement for anyone to detect or react to, a flash of silver zipped through the air once again, originating from Freagon's left hand. A second rodlin was finally thrown, only this time it hit Caleb directly in the center of his forehead with an audible impact; so hard, in fact, that the thalk stumbled backward and crashed back-first into the wall behind him.
As the large coin hit the floor and rolled off somewhere, a drop of blood ran down Caleb's nose before dripping off the tip. Only one drop, though; the injury had healed long before a second drop of blood could escape.
“Not an illusion,” Freagon asserted dispassionately. “Had to be sure.”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jaelnec, Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Nabi, Yanin, Jordan and Madara – Bor Manor, Borstown

Freagon met Irah's gaze both times she looked at him, but did not say anything. As far as he was concerned, things were going surprisingly well. Just the fact that the divine had decreased the concentration of divine energy was a victory from his perspective, and a necessary one at that; had that not happened, he would have started aggressively searching for and trying to destroy the divine by now. She was still talking an awful lot in his opinion, but it seemed as though things were less urgent now, which made it easier to tolerate.
Despite his satisfaction with how successful their efforts to pacify the divine seemed to be, Freagon kept his sword in hand. It was going well, but the divine seemed paranoid, angry... vengeful. He had a feeling that one wrong word could still set it off and necessitate battle, and without knowing the full context it was difficult to guess what might trigger its ire.

When Irah mentioned how they owed Feevesha's memory to fulfill her last wishes, the archangel's eyes hardened, its fingers curled into fists and its upper lip withdrew just slightly to show a hint of teeth. It was a clear expression of anger, to the point where the nightwalker raised his sword just a little and leaned forward a bit, putting his weight on his front foot, ready to rush to action. But then, when she went on to talk about how it would be an affront to Feevesha's life to return Caleb now, its eyes went wide, its mouth fell open and its expression turned to surprise.
Caleb held out his hands in front of him, palms upturned and fingers unfurled, and lowered his head to stare at them. It seemed transfixed by the sight, to the point where it seemed questionable whether it was even listening to what Irah was saying anymore.

Only once Irah finished speaking did the angel let his hands fall back down, where they hang limply by his sides. He raised his gaze to look at Irah, staring at her intently, almost as if trying to look into her very soul... only for his lips to part and show teeth again, but this time in a smile rather than a scowl.
And then he was gone. In the blink of an eye the archangel vanished, and with it both the strange haze that had hung over the room and the last vestiges of divine energy in the air also faded. Suddenly the room looked quite different from before, with the trail of blood that had lead to the door now being revealed to continue inside. There was blood all over the floor – a highly worrying amount of blood – going back and forth across the room several times, from the table to the bed and back again, and finally to the middle of the room, where a thin leather-bound book lay in a puddle of blood. By the bed – which was also lightly bloodstained and unmade – was an open backpack lying on its side, with various travel supplies scattered across the floor around it. By the table to their left a couple of chairs now seemed to have been knocked over, and on top of the table itself were a scattering of papers and writing utensils. These, too, were smeared with bloody handprints.
Despite all the blood, there were no bodies to be seen anywhere.

And tugged into the far corner to their left, the southeastern corner of the room, behind the table and relatively near the window, stood a figure that had not been there a moment ago. It was a tall, broad figure – taller than even Yanin – wrapped in a loose dark-gray garment not unlike a monk's robe, with sleeves so long that they hid the hands and a hood that almost hid its face, but not quite.
What took Freagon aback slightly was exactly the face. He had seen plenty of thalks – and this was indeed a thalk – but he had never seen one with a face like this one. Rather than the normal visage resembling that of a human skull, this one had a lower half that extended into something like a short animalistic muzzle, albeit still without lips and with the dagger-like teeth of a thalk, and each of its glowing green eyes was split by a vertical pupil.
Freagon's eye narrowed. Is it... trying to look more like a Melenian?
“Very well,” the creature said, and though its appearance was different it still spoke in Caleb's voice, and still in True Words. “I hope we will not regret this, Deo'irah, but here I am, in the flesh I was given. No more illusions. At your mercy.”

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jaelnec, Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Nabi, Yanin, Jordan and Madara – Bor Manor, Borstown

The archangel's eyes widened in surprise when Irah spoke the Melenian summoner's name, only to immediately narrow suspiciously. If these people were indeed strangers to this place and just happened to be nearby, how would they know her name? Surely they would not have had time to hear and memorize information irrelevant to their goal if they were truly just here to help and look for wounded. If saving lives was what they were her for, one would think they would have rushed to the rescue as soon as they knew that they were at stake. They knew more than they logically should by the explanation they had given, it figured.
But that was not all: Irah revealed that she knew even more, which further called into question the truth of what the situation really was. Feevesha had revealed the fact that she was familiar with summoning magic because she wanted to chase down these bandits, she claimed? If this was true, it would make much more sense for these people to have been among those Feevesha had told than them having heard about it after the fact. At best they could have simply stood by while these witch-hunters tried to kill Feevesha, at worst they were aligned with the murderers. Irah did seem to react very strongly and negatively when she mentioned the witch-hunters, but emotions could be faked. And the iriao she had brought here? Either the witch-hunters were indeed hypocrites, or she had simply kept it secret somehow. Being possessed by a divine was hardly obvious to anyone without keen magical senses, after all.

But even as it became more and more guarded during this thought process, it then recalled the conversations it had overheard before they entered the room, before they would have known it was listening. In among their strategic considerations, they had mentioned wanting to pursue bandits themselves and expressed some urgency in doing so, which seemed to suggest that part was true, at least. And they had talked about the possibility and importance of saving anyone in the room... and Irah had expressed both a desire to resolve things with words and a preference for things not to escalate to the point of killing each other.
Its stance relaxed somewhat, and the lightning crawling along its arms waned and disappeared. It was still odd that they knew what they did, but there had been enough time from it sensing the iriao approaching the exterior of this place for them to be told. It would not have expected them to receive such details in a moment of urgency, but stranger things had happened. It was willing to believe that this woman, at least, did not mean to harm it.

“None,” it said in response to Irah's question, its voice lowered to a much more normal speaking volume now and its tone softer. “I once served the Lord That Glitters, but now I am Fallen. Feevesha is... was...” It stopped itself and shook its head. “Feevesha called me 'Caleb'. You can do the same, if you need to.”
Its eyes narrowed once again. “These bandits are the same that you mean to pursue?”