Shienvien

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

Fifteen years with Sir Freagon, and another ten, that would make Jaelnec twenty, fifth- ... twenty-five, then? Implicitly, the nightwalker had also said that he didn't consider a friend or acquaintance, after having earlier stated that he was - kind of - his only (adopted) family. Which was quite the exact opposite for him and Sir Yanin - he definitely didn't consider the human knight family, but a friend in addition to an employer? Yeah, probably. Not always the nicest one, but a dependable one. And, going by his earlier musings about the others all being probably just circumstantial acquaintances, maybe even his only actual friend.
Between dead parents and Sir Freagon as a surrogate father, his own dead father and kind of relentless mother (she's only trying to take of my younger siblings in any way she can, even if it doesn't make much sense), and Sir Yanin's tyrant of a father and mellowest of mothers... They really did all have some kind of family problems, didn't they?

As if it wasn't a sobering enough line of thought on its own, Jaelnec - ever so briefly - touched upon Sir Freagon's less favorable personality traits.
"That bad, huh?" Jordan commented in a regretful tone, quietly enough that only Jaelnec could possibly hear, though he did briefly glance at the two knights. The older nightwalker's face was stone cold, though briefly, he let out a bark of laughter at something Sir Yanin had said, only to almost immediately return to grim. "Can't imagine he could be worse than Sir Yanin's own father, though. The best you could hope with Sir Tareon Glade was that he kind of just forgot he signed off on your employment in the first place. The lady of the house handled the salaries and the other little upkeep things so it's not like you'd be not paid if he did or anything. I genuinely don't want to know what that man would be like if he didn't need to worry about his social status or anything."

Jordan didn't envy the servants in the mansion. Having to occasionally hand over the reins of one of Sir Tareon's personal horses was quite enough. The head of the Glades didn't really do anything, but you kind of just knew you were naught but a tool, good for as long as you were useful. Insignificant, except if you knew something you shouldn't.
Oh, you died because a horse kicked you in the head? Such dreadful news. Time to have someone find another stable boy and contemplate if compensating your parents your three months' pay would be worth the social favour it would incur. Make no mistake - even at peacetime, Sir Tareon was still a tactician, and if appearing generous was somehow beneficial, he'd still do it. Didn't mean he cared. Or that annoying people wouldn't meet unfortunate, but entirely logical ends. Sometimes the victims were even people who had once been handsomely compensated themselves. Not that you'd ever suspect anything if you weren't Sir Yanin and hadn't been looking into it for a dozen years of your otherwise still young life.
The Viper himself had been fairly certain no one was definite on what exactly the old warlord had arranged outside of battlegrounds, not even the closest accomplices. The question, then, was only who would be too careless next.

Sir Tareon Glade was very different from Baroness Bor.

"Stories were ... much nicer when they were just stories. Y'know, fun and adventures and not 'weed the cabbages, would you' for the third time this month," Jordan mused, "But there's purpose now, and the ability to change at least some lives." Sir Yanin had meanwhile left towards Bor Manor. Probably meant it wouldn't be long now. "And yes, there's still hope to save someone today."

Sir Yanin Glade

"Had you asked me during any other part of my life..." the old knight had said. It had been different before, then. Anyone's guess what it entailed at this time.
Hope was a strange thing. None of the things Freagon actually described, in themselves, were hope - they were definite actions to improve the world. Yanin was never quite certain if hope itself weren't just something you had when there was nothing else left. Hoping, because there was nothing you could do. Beat despairing, he supposed, but for him, hope had been inextricably bound to powerlessness the same. There two conceivable worlds without hope - one which had fallen, and one that didn't need it.
He had decided to not give up on the world yet. But ... he didn't really know how he felt about it. It was just a decision.
"I see," had been his only parting words before he made his way over to Bor Manor looking to see how the preparations fared on their end. There were probably people on cleanup duty, too, by now.
"We are ready to move," he stated, simply, if he found either Quintin or Lady Bor herself on the premises. The implications should be clear.
Caleb would need time to accumulate its power. They could do their waiting on site, not just for the benefit of the fallen angel's powers, but there they could also interfere immediately, should the circumstances turn dire sooner than expected.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

Forget to appreciate having people around he could call friends?
"I ... don't think you can really forget something like that, can you? Well, I don't think most people can, anyway." The ones who didn't most likely didn't see them as friends to begin with. "Sometimes I wonder, though, how much most of them were really friends as much as they were just there and we got along. Between my family, the Glades' estate and most recently the Fadewatchers - and the year in between that was mostly just Sir Yanin, I guess -, it almost feels like I've had three or four completely different lives. Every time I move location, everyone just seems to get cut off. I can write, sort of, but even so..." The human squire shrugged.
It held true in reverse, too, for the most part. If someone left service, it was more than very likely that if at all, then he heard back from them maybe once, twice or thrice, but no more. It was never the same as actually sitting down with someone, talking, laughing, maybe having a pint of ale or a game of dice. Not even with the person who had, for a time, been his girlfriend.
It seemed ironic, then, that his master of all people seemed to be able to keep up contact by written word more reliably than Jordan himself. He hadn't looked, but he suspected it was mostly his more trustworthy siblings. He did notice, though, that none of the letters Sir Yanin received seemed to stick around for any amount of time. The only logical conclusion was that the knight destroyed them all shortly after reading, no exceptions. There weren't exactly many places he could hide them, especially on the move, and with Jordan having to look for something or another among his master's belongings more often than not. The man seemed to remember exactly where he had put something, but wasn't overly organized otherwise.

"Aside of my mother, I guess Sir Yanin has been around the longest," because I decided to stick myself with him, "So much so that feel I've begun to forget how it is to work with people who aren't Sir Yanin or other people who are used to working with Sir Yanin. He is certainly -" fanatical, some said "- dedicated, to say the least, and ... very practical. I guess they might be not that different in that regard. If he's not out on a mission, he's either training or researching. Mostly training."
Though for all that Jordan knew, this and being an accomplished fighter and knight could also be where the similarities ended. For a while, he had genuinely felt that Jaelnec was bloody terrified of Sir Freagon. And, while, yes, Sir Yanin was intimidating and blunt, Jaelnec had also been traveling with Sir Freagon for nearly twice as long as Jordan had been around Sir Yanin, and that ought to have been more than enough time to ... well, if there was no reason to be afraid of the older nightwalker, his page would have figured it out a long time ago.
Sir Yanin could kill you, and tended to look at you as if he wasn't entirely sure why you even existed (that was, unfortunately, just his default expression), but he was by no means a violent person unless you absolutely deserved it. Jordan wasn't even sure he could call him impatient as much as ... restless, he guessed.
"If you need something, you can feel to ask him - or me -, though. I can't guarantee he'll agree to anything, but he'll at least consider it." Jordan lowered his voice for the next sentence. "I mean, he'll probably look annoyed, but that's kind of just how he always looks." With the next sentence, Jordan's voice returned to normal volume, but the tone had shifted almost ... sad?
"Deciding that the lot is taking too long wouldn't be entirely out of character, either, mostly because there is a prisoner. To reduce the odds of being, y'know, late. That has been my least favourite part of the job ... the fact that Fadewatchers are often called in after the fact. So the past two years has been a lot more ... facing the direct consequences and less tracking down stories."
Not even so much the dead as the living. They ... were mostly for him to deal with while his master went around turning over every misplaced rock and splinter.

Sir Yanin Glade

Freagon seemed unsure why people would want to replicate his fate ... up until fairly recently, when fate had another cruel twist in store. Yanin technically knew very little of the man, past the sparse words of his deeds and the quite far-fetched tales he was telling now. This far, they held up. An entity resurrected Freagon at great cost to itself. But why? What did he get in turn?
"Not people like I, or most. Desperate people with unfinished business." The human knight noted, still quietly. There were certainly individuals that made do with less. Some of them were even comparatively sane still. "Beats being a walking carrion, more so without the magical energy to back it up."
Freagon didn't seem to be actively using magic - though art of the warden, or perhaps something similar to it functionally lost to time with the first extinction of the Knighthood of the Will, could perhaps be used subtly enough to not be immediately apparent by observation alone. Could explain the claims of superhuman ability, departed from the ways of the Wardens and merged with more conventional knightly combat.
"I don't suppose you make use of any form of magic? Or the Knighthood as a whole tended to?" It was mostly a professional curiosity. He was already on the limit of what a human could feasibly do - not because he couldn't be any faster or stronger, but because being so would rapidly break down his own body. It wasn't feasible to always have magical healing at hand, and past some point, it would come with pitfalls of its own. It wasn't perfect.

There was a pause - perhaps for Freagon to elaborate. In the end, Sir Yanin sighed. It felt almost abrupt.
"What does matter." Though he retained the low volume, it sounded sharper - in a way that might be interpreted as annoyance -, but more like a statement than a question. "The Knighthood?" Enough to go through the motions, yet not enough to have people bear witness. "Eliminating threats you happen across, for as long as you can?" One could not be everywhere, even less so indefinitely. It could be difficult enough keeping just a few people comparatively safe. And that was before it came to actually making the correct judgements. "Sorting out whatever might have been unleashed upon the world?" By you or anyone else.
Perhaps one might even contemplate between trying to eliminate the bloody Withering itself where many millions before had failed or just ... leaving others with his unfinished business and just giving up? If even vastly more knowledgeable and arguably more powerful individuals than Yanin himself were calling it quits, then how much of his own conviction was a sheer lunacy? It would be easier, definitely, to just take the few people and withdraw. To not meddle until you could not not fight no more.
"I suspect some of it might have to wait until the prisoner situation has been dealt with." One way or another. "I suggest you talk to Deo'Irah little friend, too. I don't know you, or yet what your plan is, if you even have one, but the world is rotting. It needs all the help it can get, for as long as it can have it. I haven't quite given up on it yet." Have you?
More of the Viper's attention had shifted to Sir Freagon, the weight of the halberd subtly shifted, anticipating. Answer, reaction. Ultimately, Freagon's time was not out not today, not tomorrow, though delaying any uncomfortable discussions might cost him days, or a week. Bren's time was less determinate.
Barring any reaction that required immediate response, priorities favoured the town healer. Freagon's decisions were ultimately up to Freagon, and there was not much Yanin could about it if the man was not willing. "It's taking too long. We should find our employer." Up to Freagon if he wanted to come along or keep watching their squires discuss miscellaneous things.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

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."

Jordan Forthey

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."

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

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."

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

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?

Jordan Forthey

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?"

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

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."

Sir Yanin Glade

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.

Madara

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.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

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."

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Madara

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.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

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."

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

"Divine blood..." Yanin repeated, tone functionally unchanged from his previous speech, making it unclear whether it was a proper inquiry. The words were slightly slowed from usual, though, as if he was thinking, or trying to recollect something. Didn't the components fully summoned divines ordinarily rapidly fall apart upon their connection to this realm being severed?
His eyes briefly moved to Lhirinthyl taking out Feveesha's tome again, but for now, the action didn't elicit a verbal comment. Even with only a few hopefully-loyal people around, some of their actions and words were still more public than he'd have liked.

"Seems sufficiently settled here. It's an estimated hour to arrive at destination - plenty for further discussion before final approach." Technically speaking, unless the weather turned and it started pouring, there was even an option for stopping and and sitting down once more. "Bren's life largely depends on whether they needed him there or an employer yet expects him to be delivered." In either case, time was limited - the only differences were whether Bren lost his usefulness to the bandits or their hypothetical employer sooner or later, and how liable the supposed mercenaries were to depart before they arrived. If this group was indeed hired, whoever did so might try again, here or anywhere else. It could still be a trap of some kind. If any of the bandits were to live long enough to tell the tale, they had questions to be asked. "If possible, we should find out who, if anyone, employed them, and for what precise purpose. For now, let's get ready to move out."
With that, the human knight stood. He had no real preparations to make; just a bow and halberd to pick up from where Jordan had set them.