Shienvien

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

Just as she had stumbled back from her brief altercation with the ghoul, the dark-skinned - not very-dark-brown-skinned, like some southern humans rarely seen in these lands, actually black-skinned, with the crimson eyes of true deigan - foreigner regained her footing, silently thanking him before briefly focusing on his master and his assessment on the course of the fight and responding in a manner that seemed ... almost jestful in contrast to Sir Yanin's fairly laconic matter-of-factness?
Well, they probably could use some levity, all things considered. The two wraiths he had finished off were more stolen property than living beings, and didn't really die as much as were sent back to where they had come from. But the ghouls' hosts, now hopelessly disfigured beyond all recognition with the banishment of the bodies' most recent inhabitants? Those had actually been living people with aspirations and families and friends and, well, everything not an hour ago. Best not to think about it for the time being. He didn't think he could ever get accustomed to the killing and death of actual people. Perhaps for the better.
So Jordan showed it in the back of his mind for now, let out a forced breath through his teeth, and pressed on.

The foreigner shook her head when he offered her the extra truncheon. "No, but thank you. I'd prefer one of those swords, if I have to take something - don't like using heavy cudgels as weapons, even if they are apparently useful against magical creatures."
"Right," he muttered, briefly pausing to think. Too useful to be left behind entirely, perhaps, just in case they encountered more wraiths or needed to block incoming magical attacks ... but the matter of the fact remained that he had one hand too few to wield three weapons at once effectively, and no real place to store extra weapons on his person aside of his own.
Sir Yanin and Sir Freagon didn't seem to have a need for one - his master because he had similarly enough, enough weapons to wield one in each gauntlet twice over, the nightwalker because ... well, mostly because he didn't seem like the sort to use whatever was available when he already had a nigh-indestructible blade of his own. In small part because he didn't seem like the approachable sort in general. Lhirinthyl and Deo'Irah, probably also not. Madara or the younger nightwalker, now that they were pouring into the main hall? The latter, he guessed. Hadn't Sir Freagon told him to pick one up, anyway, before Sir Yanin decided it was better used to make the water-wraith relinquish its would-be prey? Was that really some two minutes ago?
"Hey, er, Jaelnec?" he briefly interrupted the other as he was heading to follow the elder of his kind. "Here, take this."
Jordan briefly bowed down to forcefully slide the spare truncheon across the floor. Seemed like a better idea than trying to pass kilogram-and-some iron object over air. The latter might result in a missing tooth or two.

This was more or less all the preparation he could do aside of taking deep breaths and steeling his nerves, so quietly, he took the stairs to where Sir Yanin and Deo'Irah already stood.

Sir Yanin Glade

Even now, in the enduring moments of suspense and preparation, the deigan healer insisted only one divine remained. And by count?
Three witch-hunters, the Melenian summoner, the two other aspiring adventurers on the eastern stairs, and the supposed full summoning sacrifice they were yet to see. Eleven frentits - five ghouls, two tables, the carpet, the water-beast, the pottery ghoul, and the blanket-wraith -, one supposed thalk. It was the third time he counted, and the numbers still added up.
Mistakes could happen - there could be more, and if there were, he was prepared. It was preferable to assume things were much worse than they should be, and end up not having to deal with them, than expect to get off lightly and find yourself in the thick of it with no reserves to spare. Deception was unlikely, but also never impossible; in theory, he was ready to oppose any and all of his supposed new allies the same.
It would not be an easy fight, especially if he didn't intend to outright kill them. It was always much harder to stop but not kill someone who was intent on killing you. He had no intention to have the Melenian summoner die needlessly, either. No matter how badly she had fucked up, Yanin didn't fancy himself judge and executioner.
And quite definitely, he wasn't intent on just letting someone die because it would have made removing the actual opponent much, much easier.

The Viper was inherently careful. Some would say paranoid. A person with his focus, memory and attention to detail, but lack of ability to really read people under different circumstances could easily end up being too trustful. Easily manipulated - and even if innately good-natured, knowledge and physical prowess alone could render someone incredibly dangerous. As it was, he had grown up among people who would risk their very lives to save someone, and then stop caring if there was nothing left to leverage out of the someone. So he trusted maybe three people in the world, and even so, he didn't necessarily always trust their judgement.
Most of the time, you could only assume other people did not want to die or be tortured - and even that was not absolute. Fanatics existed. Zealots. Liars.

"Seven guests, twelve divines. If what we know is accurate, one of each remains," the human knight reiterated. "It is unlikely she was possessed, unless a divine could possess someone to summon a body for itself."
Yanin wasn't aware of something like that being necessarily possible. If they could jump hosts under normal circumstances, 'lock them up and wait it out' would hardly work as a recommended method of containing wraiths and ghouls. Perhaps this scenario was just about atypical enough.
The deigan didn't have a plan, though one of them did inadvertently confirm she was most likely a necromancer of at least some skill. The Melenian, if responsive and able to move, would likely be insane and not cooperative. He might have been potentially the best swordsman alive in all of Reniam, but he was only the third best tactician in his family alone. Maybe fourth, after the Falcon of Glades.
"The best physical fighters in the room are myself and Sir Freagon, not knowing Lhirinthyl's skill with his sword unaided by magic, followed by Jordan and the easterner--" he referred to Jaelnec. "He doesn't fight?" That would divide the people roughly into four pairs. More than one pair at a time most likely wouldn't be able to enter the room concurrently. "The Melenian, if it's her still alive, is likely behind the first door in the hallway; if the divine is the same, and there is no door opening to the adjacent room, there are only two pre-existing exits, the main door, and the window." Forcing the thalk to move presumed there was someplace for it to move to.
Opening the second door first to confirm was an option. Opening a path to the divine would flood the room with excess divine energy, but also dilute it. The human knight's face was not visible, but even so, his expression had not changed when Deo'Irah mentioned divine energy; he simply seemed fully focused on sensing his surroundings. (Jordan clenched his jaw, but remained listening.) Seeing the Melenian was seemingly still alive, logic dictated it wasn't yet at levels that would outright kill in a dozen seconds - and most unarmored fights properly lasted a second. Two. Maybe three. More was exceedingly rare.

"Why would the Melenian be still alive?" Jordan suddenly interjected, if quietly. "Especially if the probably-thalk is pretty" ('damn pissed' most likely wasn't the most polite way to put it in the company of someone like Deo'Irah) "well, very extremely displeased with the situation... Is it a trap, or does it have plans for her, or just not ... care? I don't think thalks are known for their mercy, exactly..."

"No clue." He really hadn't. "Smoking the thalk out with existing tools would be difficult, even more so if we'd have to make it move past us or remove it through the window, and not kill the Melenian." Unfortunately, there were no silver bolts to spare. "Better options notwithstanding, we should move in position. Jordan, easterner, second door - we need to check it; wait for sign. Myself, Sir Freagon first door, Deo'Irah, Lhirinthyl, center. Who doesn't intend to fight, stand back until called for, see that there are no surprises." No point in flooding them with divine energy, too. "And whoever needs to hear it, do not leave yourself exposed. Deo'Irah - do you really intend to talk with the thalk?"

Madara

The seamstress had stood back during the fight, quietly observing the interactions between the various other members of their - now what was it? Assorted bunch of would-be adventurers brought together by temporal happenstance? Seemed that the younger nightwalker was quite infatuated with the lady deigan. Oh dear.
Only when the fighting had ceased and the combatants were making plans did she enter the main hall, arching a single eyebrow and tap a single fingernail against one of the instruments when Deo'Irah knowingly looked at her. She was here to mostly do one thing - and she had not neglected her tools. Sounded like it would be far too late for most of those in the building, though - except for, perhaps, the Melenian. At least unless there were non-medically approved uses for her means, anyway. In the calm, she had sashayed across the marred floor, and now stood next to the planners.

"Literally smoke out?" Madara inquired. "It's quite hard to ration doses in free-flowing smoke or vapour, I am afraid, and I'm only distantly familiar with the tolerances of Melenians - compared to humans, palanters or even deigan - and even less so divines. We can hardly assume something that would painfully disable - but never kill - all mammals, but not a bird or reptile, would also force out a divine, now can we?"
It would be an interesting experiment, to be sure - but the outcome might be a bit unpredictable with the whole lot milling about in an enclosed space.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The human knight paused, if ever so briefly, when the foreign woman admitted to a slight misjudgement on her part, thanking him for assistance, and reckoning they'd be even now. It was only fair; he'd asked her to spend her limited reserves first, in a very literal sense.
"So it would appear," he acknowledged her words, though his attention on either her or anyone else making preparations in the rooms felt somehow cursory, even with his metal armor being already predisposed to not having any particular expression.
Down in the hall, Freagon was inquiring Deo'Irah if she'd noticed any other divines, which was entirely reasonable, and perhaps also somewhat notably, Lhirinthyl stated one single word: "Inefficient." Perhaps at himself, perhaps at Freagon - it was the other declared knight the deigan mage was staring at. He could tell that much. It would appear that the human knight and Lhirinthyl were in agreement, after all.
He himself meticulously ascended the stairs with both weapons held in high guard. Nearly silent, further obfuscated by the bustle of people running back and forth to retrieve whichever weapons they saw fit or inspecting and cleaning their own, and exchanging last words.

Three windows, two doors, one closed, one open, signs of battle. He observed everything, watching for motion, listening to sound. Even smells, if there were any of note - though, for the time being, that of smoke was rather overpowering, covering up the milder undertones of blood, stone, lightning and metal. Almost, but not quite strong enough to unpleasantly sting eyes.
The attention he spared for the open door was keener, every step higher revearing more of the corridor leading away from it as it hung there, unassumingly swung open into the hall and away from him. It would have been conceivable to someone to stand hiding behind it, yet nothing sprung forth. Just deceptive stillness, and more of the building's west wing. One more door, in the southern wall, and another after it. Both closed. Nothing unexpected in the rest of the room.
No motion. But a faint sound - the same sobbing he had heard before, from approximately the same location. There was no doubt that whoever was there, or adjacent, had heard the commotion. Not that the wraiths and ghouls were particularly subtle - the fighting would have resonated through the chambers, loud and clear - but also their words.
Unavoidable, perhaps, at least with this level of coordination. For all their presumed having fun, the frentits had, in contrast, seemingly acted on a definite cue at least once. They knew. It knew. He knew they knew. And potentially all the way down from there.
On one hand, it could have been better to shut up entirely and keep adversaries guessing. On the other, the absence of something could mean as much or more than the presence of something. Beware of forests where birds don't sing. Silence was, sometimes, blatant.

Chair. More blood. Fur, if not from someone's garments - none of the ghouls had been wearing anything matching - then from the Melenian. Vials? Blood tracked to first door. A thin line of light beneath the open door, no one standing behind it. For the time being, Yanin stopped advancing entirely.
Lhirinthyl was asking Freagon to accompany him - it was, at the very least, somewhat logical. Preparing magical spells could take time, time during which they were comparatively defenseless. Did it meant he had judged himself to have enough energy left to throw around lighting one more time? Something more than that?
"Do you have something in mind, Lhirinthyl?" Lhirinthyl might have incidentally noticed - due to his unusual proficiency in languages and seeming ability to not have a distinct accent - that Yanin was pronouncing his name akin to someone speaking a bit stiff Fermian with a vague Rodorian accent.
Even as he spoke, he pointed at Deo'Irah with his hand - a bit awkwardly, since his thumb and index finger were bound up with the truncheon, leaving only three armored fingers free to refer to anything -, then turned his palm toward the ground, motioned 'low' twice, then turned his hand over once more to beckon her closer.
"We can presume the summoner, if alive, if quite heavily injured," another trick was always an option, "There are also two small vials on the floor. Might confirm what Madara was saying had been inferred earlier."

If Irah had moved up in the interim - potentially to a cople steps higher to make leaning closer easier -, he would ask, in a very low voice, "You can hear from here. Are you able to tell if there is a mundane in there, and if so, are they in the same room?"

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The visage standing in for the ghoul's head exploded upon nonexistent impact, the metal sinking into the headless body unimpeded. The now-unanimate corpse lost tone in an instant, weighing down Yanin's arm as it dropped to its knees along with the clatter of its sword. The knight didn't waste any time showing the nerveless burden back with his knee and wrenching his weapon free as he turned to, ever so briefly, assess the situation.
The pottery-wraith exploded into a million smaller pieces, Freagon had finished off another of the ghouls, the dark-skinned foreigner moved to engage the one-armed ghoul. The male deigan had uttered just one word in arcane language, a corresponding rune lighting up. There were not too many arcane symbols and words Yanin recognized without a reference, but this one was one of them. One of the most common elements, one not uncommonly found on runeswords, and one that had been both referenced and put on display earlier on the same day - lightning.
Even with the urgings of Deo'Irah rallying on, it was suboptimal. The older nightwalker didn't seem to be willing to take over, but rather just stood around, watching Lhirinthyl stand off against the spear-wielding ghoul. Bloody waste. The situation had changed as they learned more of their enemies. Freagon appeared more than capable of handling that one on his own, with comparatively little expenditure of energy or risk of injury, as opposed to requiring input from not one, but two different mages, yet again uselessly spending magical energy which they very much could use later, when facing against what was suspected to be their main adversary. Hit hard, hit all at once, before being cooked alive by divine energy or magic.
The iron truncheon, still covered in blood, motioned toward the second-to-last ghoul standing; it would have been hard to interpret who it was referring to, but for the fact that Yanin's helmet seemed to be facing Freagon. You're better suited for it, you do something. Lhirinthyl and Deo'Irah may not have been new to it ... but it definitely felt like they were used to working on their own. And maybe in for the short fight, rather than the long one.

The maybe second and a half had been enough for the dark one to liberate the ghoul he had formerly disarmed from its second arm and stick a dagger in its head, upon which it decided to simply fall onto her and attempt to bite her. Nothing to lose, no incentive to give up.
In three quick strides, surprisingly enough managing to precisely avoid any and all bits of clay and porcelain littering the floor, the human knight moved forward, past a momentarily slightly confused Jordan, who opted to not get in his way. The knight flipped his sword around in his hand, an armoured arm and hand with the hilt making its way into the foreigner's peripheral vision as the Viper thrust the pommel of his sword under the ghoul's left clavicle to shove it back, off the dark one, backwards left shoulder first onto the stairs, no matter its attempts to sidestep or break its borrowed teeth on the knight's vambrace.
In the end, it was not a match. If the ghoul had not fallen back from its not exactly secure footing, it was easy enough to take another step, hook around his right shoulder, and throw it back regardless. In the end, he just needed the ghoul to be far enough away from his newfound ally to allow for a free swing with his other hand. Which he did, the iron of the truncheon colliding with the ghoul's head as it fell down, still kicking and likely with the dark one's steel embedded in it, parts of its skull and yaw crushed in mounting to just a minor inconvenience. A loud crack from the other end of the room announced that the second-to-last ghoul was done for, if unnecessarily wastefully.
This ghoul got to persist for another second, enough for Yanin to step around its attempt to kick him the shin and ram the truncheon through its ribcage, upon which it finally ceased. Breaking his truncheon loose, the knight stood.
"They fight until disrupted or fully disassembled," he noted to the dark one and Jordan behind him, tone characteristically neutral, almost indifferent. "Taking off an arm is but a scratch."
Turning his head from the remains of the former witchhunter turned ghoul, he looked at the burning pile of cloth that had been the final wraith.
"Thank you." It might have been annoying to fight a living rope and multiple ghouls.

Jordan Forthey

The wraith resigned itself to its fate - or perhaps, being airborne, it was simply unable to change its trajectory as iron crashed through its body and left the squire free to drop onto one knee with a slight crunch of what had once been a saucer as a fine assortment of tableware smashed into the stone floor and foot of the stairs. The truncheons collided the floor from sheer inertia alone. The fight was still going on.
Leaning on one of his weapons, he pushed himself back to his feet, somewhat to his annoyance noting that his breathing was heavier, elevated, almost panting although it had been what, some ten seconds? He was not quite sure if it was being in a real fight once more, or spending too much energy, or still somehow not enough, or any combination of the former, or - ah, fuck no.
The ghoul had decided to simply throw itself at his new friend, so Jordan forgot about his contemplation of his own shortcomings and rushed towards the two entangled people (if the ghoul could still be qualified as a person), though Sir Yanin - as he was often wont to be - was much faster than he could hope to be, even in heavier armor, so in the end, he abruptly halted himself next to the foreigner, swinging an arm out, just in case the other was liable to fall with the ghoul being torn off her with her weapons presumably still stuck in it (and somewhat awkwardly catching her without using his hand on the off chance she actually did, seeing how he was still holding onto his blunt weapons).
"You okay?" he glanced sideways at her even as Yanin removed a third of the ghoul's face (the lower half with less daggers in it) and borderline staked it to the stairs before commenting something about ghouls not really being hindered by regular injury. Well, it made sense - it wasn't really their bodies ... they were just wraiths made out of corpses, no? "I'm Jordan, in case you missed the introductions earlier."
Surprisingly enough, Sir Yanin actually managed to thank someone for once - he usually forgot.

The knight was not done, though, and seemed to be addressing the whole room - or, at the very least, speaking louder, "Of those accounted for, the summoner, if alive, and thalk remain. I think I west front side upstairs, second or third window*. Those who have anything to throw at a powerful caster, prepare to do so now. Best to strike all at once before he can react, so coordinate. If I'm not mistaken, it having its own body means it eliminates like a mundane would." Sir Yanin had managed to locate a piece of fabric, running it over the blade of his sword before sheathing it and picking up one of the discarded witchhunter blades. He was speaking as he moved around rather than stopping to give a speech. "Silver ignores magic. That's why they use those." He kept the iron truncheon, too.
"Master's usually terribly practical," Jordan commented to to Nabi, absently using a truncheon as a fire-poker to shove what remained of the burning blankets into a pile on the floor to clear the path upstairs, presumably as she and everyone else briefly went over what weapons they were using and recovered what they needed to. "And I kind of promised the kids back at the guardhouse we'll try to get their healer back, too. This will be a long day..."
With that, he sprinted half a dozen steps deeper into the room to fetch the second of three silver swords, just in case, before returning just as promptly and offering one of his truncheons to the dark one. "Do you prefer to fight with magic, or silver and iron ... there should be a third silver sword somewhere."
Sir Yanin seemed to be done with all the preparations he was going to do, and walked halfway up the western stairs, having briefly halted to see who was ready, if and with what, they followed.

[[*Forgot to specify, Jack feel free to correct or accept as need be.]]

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

The damned thing did explode.
In a manner of speaking, anyway. Having narrowly missed Jordan's follow-up, the wraith slid back and clattered against the wall next to the door, before abruptly throwing parts of itself back at them even as he began to run after it. The two shards aimed at him exploded harmlessly against the truncheon he held in front of himself to block, not even scratching the steel on his arm and chest; the final shard he had tried to bat out of air managed to pass through unhindered. Perhaps because he had instinctively closed his eyes to avoid an errant bit of shattered porcelain or a smack of dust just incidentally happening to go past his defenses and hitting him in the eye regardless. Leave it to uncontrolled debris to find the parts of him that just happened to not be covered in metal, and it would probably happen... Surely.
Thankfully, his new acquaintance managed to block it herself. Jordan could only vaguely register her instructing him to finish the wraith off before the divine made its next move. In the interim, Jordan had moved another three steps closer.
Whether it decided to rush him, slip by, or try and lunge for the less metal-clad woman behind him, it made no difference. The practical result was the same: the wraith leapt at his right side, giving him just enough time to carry his weight over to his left, leading foot and perform a quarter-turn, simultaneously arcing both of his truncheons to the right, effectively replacing his right side on the pottery-wraith's path with two horizontally swung truncheons to its face and what approximated its torso.

Sir Yanin Glade

Having sent the first ghoul to its knees and hands and disarmed the other, the human knight looked down at the blanket-wraith, raising up not unlike a snake warning one to stay away. To his side, the dark one chanted in a quiet voice, hands weaning patterns, and behind, a ghoul and a wraith were busy making themselves a new head of green mist and new arm respectively.
For a fleeting moment, the cobra and the Viper watched one another, one rearing, the other motionless and prepared to strike. Flame swallowed the former, prompting the disarmed ghoul to leap to the side. The dark one seemed capable enough to handle this one, too, if need be. Unfinished business elsewhere.
The first ghoul was finally back on its feet, beginning to move faster now that Lhirinthyl recalled his iron needle. The Viper struck to the other side, one additional stride, sword brought diagonally up to sever the ghoul's unrotected, empty arm and meet the silver sword in the other, flat to edge, blocking it as Yanin took another stride closer, too close to effectively disengage, truncheon brought down through the ghoul's new semblance of a head, ramming into its body like a pick.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

Briefly, fleetingly, there was a pressure upon his hand and arm, fruitlessly trying to yank it back. It yielded abruptly, in a snapping, crunching tear as the ghoul's head was all but removed entirely. Mostly decapitated, it began to stumble as its feet found the stone.
It didn't have a couple of seconds to try and regain its footing. In a quarter of one after its sword hit the stone of the floor, the truncheon, having arced back even as the ghoul still amid its newly-beheaded stumble, would have its end slammed into the ghoul's center-back, hard into its spine. If the first contact had partially halted its progression deeper into the hall, then the second one made sure the ghoul fell further into the hall, spine presumably cracked and silver sword clanging against the manor floor.
Even if it still had the articulation and presence of mind to try and take a reflexive swipe at him, it would have been too far, too late. Assuming it had been thrown down, even its feet would be a couple meters from his, its arms and torso safely out of reach, and too far away compared to more immediate threats to be the first priority for going after.
The second ghoul on this side of the stairs had taken four more running strides down the stairs in the interim, rushing forward with abandon, with the fabric-based wraith just two flops behind.
The knight's weight shifted to the foot facing his other two adversaries, truncheon held low to the side, longsword held high. Briefly, the end of the truncheon referred to the unassuming figure of the blanket-wraith making its way down the stairs. Clumsy as it might have appeared, it was a living rope, or an obstruction to be cast over the unwary while the others cut them down. Potentially annoying.
"Burn it," he stated - an instruction, perhaps. Or more of a recommendation. You always maintained a plan for handling things on your own. As he said the words, the ghoul took three more strides.
Close enough.
One stride forward, turn of wrist, and a precise strike from below, aimed at the ghoul's lower sword-arm, truncheon as if incidentally raised to block the silver sword from parrying the steel one. Barring the ghoul displaying some momentum-defying stunt or swordmanship beyond what most trained humans could muster, it was going to be a hand short for the rest of its brief stay in the mundane realm.
And just as quickly, Yanin would retract his final stride, quarter-turn, and arc the sword down to low guard while the truncheon remained waist-level. Out of the way from direct rush, and prepared for what he suspected was to come.

Somewhere behind and to the side of him, Jordan took the third step forward since the wraith just about missed having its second arm demolished, into the two shards flung at him, even as his left arm swung out in an attempt to bat the third one aimed at the dark-skinned woman out of the air. The two trained on him shattered into dozens of smaller pieces and a minuscule cloud of dust upon impacting the truncheon he held in his right, the little porcelain bits pattering against his vambrace and chestplate.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

The dark-skinned woman had taken a step back as the wraith approached, but halted her retreat and took a glance in Jordan's direction as he engaged, evidently encouraged by the support. She definitely looked like she could hold on her own in a fight ... although this particular kind of foe was perhaps a bit of a deviation from what she was used to dealing with. Actually, he wouldn't have an idea of what she would be used to be dealing with, now would he?
In any case, her continued presence put him slightly more at ease (just not so much at ease to be unaware of his surroundings). He had been prepared to take on the animated pottery on his own, just in case, but nevertheless it would be harder for the wraith to fight two opponents at once. And it would be good to have backup if one of the other wraiths or ghouls managed to disengage from the others for long enough to try and flank him.
He had continued forward, even as his new acquaintance's sabre switched hands and she pulled a secondary blade and readied herself, even as the wraith turned its glowing eyes onto him and ... stopped? Jordan's truncheon made contact regardless, tearing away the cleaver and a significant fraction of its makeshift arm.
Don't you dare explode or something, the squire mentally noted, instinctively concerned by the new course of action. He kept the truncheon and right arm up, just in case, protecting both the arm holding the weapon and his head and neck further behind it.
With the same momentum from his first swing, he redirected the second truncheon in his left, aiming to take out the wraith's second arm and weapon in an upward swing, and, should that, too, prove successful, preparing to carry the same sequence of motions forward still, and horizontally bash the thing's head in. Fast, before it could seriously retaliate, with maybe only half a second between the hits.

Sir Yanin Glade

The deigan didn't truly take his advice, though he was certainly doing something after his declaration of it all being a distraction ... and that "something" turned out to be attempted everything. We'll be faster is we coordinate, the part of him that had gotten quite used to having people actually listening grumbled, though this time he didn't speak up, just silently focusing on his next actions and the motion in the entire room instead.
He stood ready, just a couple of meters from the foot of the stairs, both weapons prepared. Needles flew, the table Freagon was fighting stumbled and fell, the ghouls were stung, but only briefly inconvenienced, as was the cumbersome blanket-wraith, much to Yanin's annoyance. It did look potentially bothersome to fight when the thing that cut and the thing that could properly harm that particular foe were two separate pieces of equipment.
Lhirinthyl seemed about ready to leave the second half of the stairs, even as the ghouls all continued their descent, perhaps assuming Freagon would take over now that the second table seemed essentially dead, perhaps just careless, but at this time, one of those Yanin himself was facing decided to take a leap of faith, barring him from immediately drawing attention to it.
It was a blatant attack - not caring for its temporary host's bones, unpredictability or physics. In a manner that seemed deceptively relaxed, the human knight simply moved two strides away and to the side, sword kept in a high parry even as the hand with the truncheon briefly swung out at the passing foe, with the combined forces of the somewhat misguided jump and the swing making the narrow metal rod liable to simply decapitate the ghoul's body, unarmored and beginning to soften from the excess divine energy as it was.
Somewhere in the background, Deo'Irah noted that the main threat was somewhere to the west now. First floor? Second floor? Mentally, Yanin cross-referenced the information with the window he had heard the crying from.
This was not over here, however, for even without a head, broken bones and bent sword, ghouls could still thrash around and try to deliver a final blow, and he had two more foes to deal with. He was now about four meters from the foot of the stairs, to the left of them, ready to move in almost any direction; the pottery-wraith was to the right side and behind, the blanket-wraith mid-stairs, and the third former witch-hunter preparing to follow the second after apparently having pulled the iron nail from his leg.
The truncheon was ready again, and the sword had never ceased to be so.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The ornate carpet was more stubborn than the water-wraith, perhaps owing to its more solid structure, and persisted even as its liquid kin burst under Jordan's follow-up blow and permitted the squire to retrieve the final truncheon.
Aside of the people, walls, and the identified wraiths, only the large picture on the back wall of the room and a chandelier remained. From what they'd seen up to this point, it would have been very alike these critters' typical mode of operation to simply wait for someone to walk under the damn thing and just drop itself onto its target. The image was both more, and less conspicuous - he saw it, of course, with its size and comparative prominence, though he didn't necessarily pay much thought to it other than panning it for change having occurred between passes, or current motion.
The presumed witch-hunter, not content with remaining stood back in the corner he'd been forced into, had begun making his way over to them. As Yanin had no bloody clue if it was aggression towards Lhrinthyl, the carpet-wraith, his escape plan or some other concoction of his delirious mind, it was best to keep him out of the fight. Unfortunately for him, it didn't appear that he was able, or willing to, react to being directly addressed, which meant that the knight would have to physically stop him before he did something stupid or harmful.
Concurrently, even with several strains of chatter enduring behind their backs (so these were presumably frentits, and the summoner was overloaded with magical energy), one of those behind him rushed forth, prompting a split-second division of attention as the human-knight assessed who it was and what his intentions were, ultimately snapping to simply not intervening. The nightwalker in shining armor could do it. That worked, too. A bit flashier than his own usual style, and a bit more distributed in its priorities.
Ghoul? Corpse-wraith. How'd he reckon? Should ask, just in case there were more - this one in particular didn't appear to have any injuries outright incompatible with life, nor apparent decay from divine energy. Wounded people were often irrational and liable to disregard their own injuries until later; the human knight had personally seen a man run through with a sword and seemingly not even realize until someone pointed it out.
The dark one proceeded to move forth, burning the soul out of the table-wraith, the deigan man finished off the last of the carpet's will to remain motile and the healer provided what further insight she could. She guessed thalk ... liable to throw magic at them, then. Tall. Red skin. Deo'Irah said it'll only get more powerful ... full summoning would mean that at least another would have died.
"If you don't have a location, we can go through the rooms one by one. Stay-" Lhirinthyl was chanting for another spell, but the crackles and subsequent warning actually gave the human knight a pause, though not quite enough time for him to get a word in before the room filled with blinding light.
"There at least eight more of the bastards," Yanin snapped a reminder. He had already been about to, and was completely devoid of respect for dramatic pauses.
Eight more enemies that hadn't been all but completely incapacitated. One of them much more dangerous than the others. This disorganized mess will run themselves dry before they even found it...

Jordan Forthey

Jordan had reflexively closed his eyes at the first flash of light (leaving a slight yellowish after-image in his right eye), only to immediately and reflexively twitch at the shriek behind his back, turning to look what happened as soon as the reddish haze of the blinding light as seen through his eyelids went out. And then immediately winced as he saw Jaelnec recoiling; light like that probably hurt nightwalkers quite a lot...
Not that he was given much time to contemplate, since along with Sir Yanin's notion of them being nowhere near done here, everything seemed to start pouring out additional wraiths. Would the black-skinned woman have enough time to conjure up a new spell before the wraith reached her? Just regular sabre wouldn't be too useful against a wraith, would it now? Sir Freagon and the deigan mage ... were probably less likely to need help. Or his master, now that he was rushing forward, too.
Making a snap decision, Jordan rushed forward along with both of his borrowed truncheons, to try and bash the cleaver from the wraith's hand as he reached the stranger's side, left arm reaching out for the hit and the right being ready to block.

Sir Yanin Glade

Three more conglomerations of miscellaneous furniture and houseware burst forth, along with four more humans in various states of severe injury who, based on the timing, were most likely ghouls. Seven. Unless the summoner had called for more - a possibility worth remembering -, this was all of the minor entities. Along with the first, excessively dispatched ghoul, and the potential summoning-sacrifice, that was also all but the summoner herself confirmed dead. (So it had been her crying? Hadn't seemed like a Melenian voice.)
For the five of them engaged, that was luckily not much over one opponent each even assuming none of the others in the armory wished to join in. The dark one and Jordan seemed to be handling the pottery-wraith, from the brief display earlier Freagon was probably capable enough to figure out how to deal with the charging bull of a table, which left the five up there for him and Lhirinthyl, at least until either of the two other parties failed or succeeded at dispatching their respective divines.
"Take the right," he suggested at the male deigan - more metal, less of it silver. So that was the former witch-hunters and the animated bedclothing for him to deal with. The former would likely fight mostly like humans - slightly weaker humans with less physical integrity you probably needed to bludgeon to paste with iron to make sure they truly stopped their attempts of continuing to fight - the latter was probably going to try to net, tangle and strangle. Not impossibly by jumping at them from above.

Yanin drew the longsword in one smooth motion as the wraiths started to come rushing down the stairs, keeping the truncheon in his left as he moved forth (still avoiding the chandelier), blade ready to slice any parachuting wraiths in two before they would be clubbed back by iron. He'd need to use both of his weapons in conjunction to dispatch those things effectively. If the wraith continued flopping along the ground rather than taking a leap of faith, it was liable to be still susceptible to being immobilized and cut by force, but slower than the ghouls, who could be dodged, parried and hit as usual.
The steel edge of the human knight's sword was by no means as permanent as one made of sartal, but for the time being it was completely void of blemishes, meticulously honed, sharpened and oiled, sharp enough to quite effortlessly cut hair.
The ghouls, if they reached him first, were liable to lose their sword and corresponding arm - gruesome, but this time, there was the confidence they were already dead and gone -, then get their heads bashed in. He'll be meeting them a short distance from the base of the stairs.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

Amid the many things going on, the deigan couple, the two nightwalkers - the younger of whom seemed friendly enough, if a bit shy, and the older of whom had every bit of the approachability Sir Yanin had, along with seemingly similar amount of love for chatter.
It had taken a few years to get used to the thought that his (back then future) master was not actually an intrinsically violent man, just exceptionally capable at fighting. And distrustful. And duty-bound. And about as hopeless with being socially agreeable as he was intelligent and liable to remember everything ever said and done. It remained to be seen if it was any similar with Sir Freagon, but something in the look was immediately similar.
Granted, the tall human knight was currently fairly talkative for himself, seeing how he had a specific task to focus on, a task that required coordinating. Jordan suspected that it had something to do with tactics being approachable with sheer logic, no emotion of innate understanding of empathy required. Almost as if people were slightly less reliable weapons to be commanded, rather than ... well, people. Once the fight was over and the living weapons returned to being humans and deigan and penin and nightwalkers and assorted other folks, Sir Yanin Glade went back to compensating for cluelessness with borderline paranoia.
If "the boy's" - Jaelnec's - master was anything like his, then some amount of apprehension was understandable. Trust me, I don't even know why am I bothering half the time, either. Three whole years, and it seemed he had no more hope at ever being his master's equal than the day he had started training. At least until the few actual conflicts as a guard came up, and at least somewhat fortified the understanding that the average person knew to fight ... almost not at all. And the average thug was not vastly better, relying on ambush and being bigger, stronger and more armed than the hapless target.
So perhaps not quite as hopeless. He didn't need to be better. He didn't even be as good. He just needed to be good enough. Use the environment. Use every single unfair advantage there was. Isolate your opponents. Never leave line of sight or yourself exposed.

The deigan woman - Deo'Irah - seemed to be faltering. Had she already spent herself healing others? That was ... concerning. Jaelnec seem to have taken to guarding her especially, which was... Well. She was a petite woman, bestowed with the same beauty deigan were famed for, wearing garments that were very from-fitting and a touch too thin for the advancing autumn, and they were essentially marching into battle. It probably wouldn't have taken too much effort from her to make Jordan himself noticeably flustered. Jaelnec was just slightly too obvious about it even without her doing anything. Besides, she already came with a companion.
Once inside, he followed Sir Yanin's example and swapped the spear for a truncheon, only for Lhyrinthil to wander too deep in his assault, be caught, and prompt the knight to grab a second truncheon and rush to intervene before the wraith could just go and snap the mage's neck. By the time Jordan made his own way over to the other side of the door, his master had already thrown the extra lump of metal and retracted to the comparative safety of the manor, causing the animated water to toss the male deigan aside and fall in front of the door.
Driven mostly by the appearance of the lump of fluid close to his feet and vaguely assuming Sir Yanin would be able to counter whatever else tried to lung at him from his high guard with the remaining truncheon from the other side of the door, Jordan took a half-step forward, careful to only expose only his arm and the truncheon to bring the latter down on the barely coherent remnant of the wraith, and, if it dispersed, use its end to swipe the fourth truncheon back into the armory, along with retracting himself and sending a glance behind him, at the little congregation of people who had yet to join the fight - the nightwalkers, Deo'Irah, and the black-skinned newcomer, who appeared equally ready for combat and indecisive.
Lhirinthyl didn't seem to be faring quite as well, as just as he landed on his knee, the carpet came to life and wrapped itself around him.

Sir Yanin Glade

Sir Yanin, ever ready to act upon anything that decided to come for his squire or any other of them, was making a mental list of everything that was in the room, from the two destabilized wraiths, to the third, new one, to the image on the opposing wall, to the brief image he had been able take in as he reached out, to anything that could move freely, from dust to ... hopefully not the walls of the manor itself.
There was a glint of metal in the air; Lhirinthyl's magic still held. Good control. The injured potential witch-hunter moved forward.
"You!" the human knight snapped at him. The glint of metal flashed into the rug. The table was still scampering about. Before anything else happened and if need be, he would have just about enough time to give a single other instruction, or more likely direction - left, right, up, down, halt, back, stop, forward, retreat. With his equipment it was not overly likely one of the wraiths would like to give him a hug, but throwing something at him or magic were still options.
As were, equally and indistinguishably, sheer unadulterated fanaticism and some misguided attempt to help on the other side.

Madara

A big yet empty house indeed. Even with their brief interaction, one could tell that Baroness Vela Bor was still an adventurer at heart, not pampered nobility. Might nevertheless have gotten more than she bargained for when she eventually brought the adventure to her instead.
Madara lightly touched her fingers to the man's shoulder and looked up at him as he explained their situation. Their losses. The unspoken probability that his second colleague might not return, either. Back in the guardhouse, the more combat-oriented types had promised to try and get the healer back. Yet to be seen if they'd be more successful, should the battle be won here.
Her eyebrow raised slightly as he continued to answer her second question, awaiting, until finally expressing... Ah! Naturally, it could be quite important indeed. Could make the lives of those inside quite a bit more interesting.
"Of course it is important," she affirmed - tone more assurance than scolding. But also a tiny sliver of the latter - self-doubt could easily bring men and women to ruin. "If you're right, it could yet beget a much more significant affair, and a lot less reason." Amber eyes narrowed as the half-palanter glanced at the unassuming form of the manor, fingers absently slightly tightening their grip on the man's shoulder. "Thank you."
And just like that, she was gone, her slender and strong figure almost gliding down the short path to the manor.

Inside, the assortment of armored and magical combatants had already engaged; she herself remained by the exterior entrance for the moment, quite content with letting the fighters render the room mostly safe before getting herself further involved.
"Evidently," her voice cut over the ruckus, eyes fixed pointedly on the two nightwalkers, as they seemed to be the least busy out of the lot with the humans and deigan tackling at least three wraiths and barking orders at someone stumbling around further inside, "The little summoner imbibed something as she fled to the upper floor. Might have been piaan. Thought you lot might want to take note of it."

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade (and Jordan Forthey)

Yanin nodded, once and over his shoulder, at Lady Bor's notion that there would be an armory right past the main entrance. Convenient if you wanted to grab some weapons to protect the front door. Potentially almost as convenient if you wanted some extras when entering the manor, which was most likely rather atypical use case for someone on the side of the rightful owners of the manor. This time, odds were ever so slightly in their favor.
No motion that he could see. There was the faint sound of crying from one of the rooms. Seemed more human than Melenian. He made a note of the window.
Deo'Irah whispered something to her companion; he couldn't make out a word. Might have been the same language he had briefly heard from Lhirinthyl earlier. Just as quickly as she was done communicating with the male deigan, she moved over to him, prompting Yanin to half-turn his head and lower himself to mitigate him being nearly a third taller than she was.
”... I sense that you appreciate directness, Yanin, so I will be direct." It, generally, made everyone's life much easier. His especially. Socializing was a game with too many unwritten rules and hidden meanings, rules and implications he didn't instinctively know, but had to learn and consciously spot, or worse, just guess. And hope he was right. At best, people were irritated, at worst, removal of undesirable elements was a definite option for less moral forces. As long as he managed to avoid the latter, how much would be left for the first? "This is, indeed, not my first time…” She was ... smiling? One of those expressions. Probably not happy - there was not much reason to be happy. Friendly, maybe. Polite. ”... the witch-hunters are going to be problematic. You can expect them not to be friendly to us–we should deal with them accordingly.”
What in the Realms have you done? Nothing that had reached his usual outpost in Etlon, that much was certain... Either it was recent and local, which meant she had a transgression that was known to local vigilantes ... but not known enough for the Fadewatchers or Lady Bor and her folks to take immediate notice of her presence. Or there was something on her that would be noticeable. Not just noticeable upon search - some self-appointed activists were not going to have a reasonable excuse to commit to a search when the actual law was present.
No, if she hadn't a reason to suspect these were witch-hunters she had met before, it had to be something one could notice from afar. Yanin himself couldn't, so not a regular unusually perceptive person, and she had not been worried about the Fadewatcher. A skilled mage, then? Mind control? Summoning - like the Melenian? Wild magic? Necromancy? Wasn't necromancy the only one of those that affected one's soul outside of its active use? Seemed most likely. The follower of Reina, of all people, had learned the art of necromancy? Us... We... Both her and Lhirinthyl, then?
The laws were in place for a reason. The mess in the manor was a living proof of it, summoners losing control of their thralls, vigilantes acting without rhyme and reason causing unknown amounts of collateral damage where doing literally nothing might have just maintained the existing state of affairs... Pursuing every transgression in full force was not always to everyone's best interest. At least as long as no harm had been knowingly done to someone innocent.
"Best for you to not draw their attention, then," he simply stated in a low tone, proceeding forth without further comment. Details could be worked out later.
The older nightwalker, armor glinting in colours of more worth than most people saw in their whole lives, had caught up with them in the mean, drawing an equally, if not more impressive sword. It looked silvery, but silver readily tarnished, just ever so subtly too bright to be even the most carefully polished steel. Deo'irah was immediately interested, inquiring about it in Fermian. A rare specialty of true deigan - you could probably buy an entire city for a sartal sword that flawless.

"Miss, are you okay?" Jordan asked somewhere behind Sir Yanin, reflexively halting and holding out his non-spear-bearing arm and hand when it momentarily appeared that she might falter and fall, briefly stopping half a step head of her. Since Jaelnec had self-assigned himself to protect the deigan woman, it briefly appeared that she had spontaneously obtained two bodyguards. After a few seconds, though, Jordan's vaguely concerned eyes going from the deigan to his master, the squire hurried on, even as Deo'Irah turned some of her controlled water to ice and set it down, and Sir Yanin appeared to perform one last check before actually entering the armory, even as Lhirinthyl relentlessly marched forward amid chanting up a spell.

There was no movement in the immediate inside. Deo'Irah commented something about her magic, and twelve angels. That was quite a bit more than Lady Bor had counted, if accurate... Don't draw attention. Useful though the information may be.
The only evidently iron weapons in the room appeared to be four iron truncheons, both himself and Jordan grabbed one after setting their borrowed spears down.
Lhirinthyl didn't bear to wait, and magic swung the double doors open to reveal a bleeding man and a peculiar conglomeration of Lady Bor's currently appropriated furniture, twisting in preparation of facing its previous or new opponent. The injured man's equipment stood out, however - darker, maybe iron. And this sword might actually have been silver. Things to counter magical opponents.
It was not unlikely, then, that this was one of the "witch-hunters" that had contributed to the mess. It might be best to inform Deo'Irah to leave this one to the surgeon, at least until proven otherwise. Lhirinthyl sent a number of small metal projectiles flying into the makeshift body of the table-wraith ... but despite having access to iron projectiles, continued forth into the room, breaking at least a few cardinal rules for winning unstructured combat. Never leave yourself exposed or enter areas without checking them as closely as possible. If possible, fight only one opponent at a time. That was at least two, if not three.
"Sil-" Yanin had began, even as the table-wraith recoiled and- Something grabbed Lhirinthyl. "Ah, fhh-"
He moved immediately, grabbing hold of the final truncheon with his remaining free hand, darting two strides forward forward, left arm with one properly held truncheon moving into high block ready to transition into parry or hit, right drawn back with the other held loosely by the end, taking the final stride into the doorframe, leaving the other foot back and lowering his body - just a glance was enough, at Lhyrinthyl, at the liquid blob trying to reel him in - and the right arm moving forward and up in an facsimile of a vertical axe-throw, aimed at the center-mass of the blob.
As soon as the weight of the weapon was no longer touching his right gauntlet, he was already carrying his weight back onto his trailing foot, quarter-turning and half retreating back behind the doorframe, still ready to deliver a follow-up parry or attack. All in one seamless motion, sent only by the inevitable clinks of metal from the rapid motion and one breath released, and one drawn. In the background, Jordan began to move himself to the other side of the open door.

Taking a kilogram of iron in the face was bound to be rather distracting if you were made of water and intolerant of iron.

Madara

“Ah, yes. The town was attacked during the night, and I...” The man gestured at his thigh. “It's just a flesh-wound, it can wait. I was lucky. I saw a couple of guys get clobbered pretty hard by one of those monsters inside while we escaped, though... they probably need help, if they're still alive.”
Madara winced, softly, compassionately. "We - myself and the deigan follower of Reina - arrived at the guardhouse not long before the bell called for aid." She shook her head. "The three we didn't have time to do much for should be fine for now, but we're going to have to return there. We'll return to you, too." She looked up at the man's face. Trying to determine if she should inquire about the state of the manor more. Maybe a little. Maybe the rest later.
"There have been more people here in days gone, no?" Baroness Vela Bor's entire party. And now? A couple of servants, a couple of guards - maybe a handful of guards before this day. Seemingly hardly any people who were actual friends. Quite sad, in a way. Being old should not mean being stuck to the past.
"I am no fighter - I'm merely a surgeon and a seamstress from a town a bit larger than this one." Madara smiled sadly. "But I will see if I can help anyone in rooms the others have under control. Unless you know something that might help us?"

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade (and Jordan Forthey and Madara)

The male deigan was insistent the riders were not a threat even before they dismounted. Where from that certainty? Even if not conspired, several hostile parties could very well be in one place at the same time. Opportunism. Pick off the stragglers, claim whatever was advantageous, and most people would be none the wiser.
Most people here, at least those who reacted to the summons, were at least somewhat opportunistic. It would have been surprising enough if something like this hadn't already happened before.
Water. Lightning. Yanin simply nodded, sharply, still more focused on any motion that could be detected from the manor grounds, even as Lhirinthyl had made it head, and in a personal-space-defying manner that seemed characteristic to him, started questioning the first guy near the gate. One could only assume that much like the dead fellow in the Fadewatcher station, this one was one of Lady Bor's men.
A short distance back, there were two more humans - apparently domestic staff rather than fighters - and who was no doubt Lady Bor herself. Contrary to the fears of the watchmen back in the guardhouse, she looked to be doing just fine for herself, getting up there in age or not.
He himself was going to let the two other newcomers explain themselves before proceeding, however. The older rider, one-eyed and face more scar than skin, dismounted and took his time replying. The younger guy seemed to be looking from Yanin to his fellow rider - at least judging by the slight back-and forth notching of his head from the two being on opposite sides of one another. Neither of the two had visible sclerae or irides. Nightwalkers, then.
“Freagon, of the Knights of the Will,” the older nightwalker finally said. “The boy is my page. We're here to help.”
Yanin's helmet, being a helmet, quite fittingly had no expression to note, even though there was a good two-second beat. So it was that guy. His claims didn't make sense, but with him displaying equipment that would have made him well set for life if he ever wanted to put down his job, there was hardly any confusing him with any other contenders. The title itself, though? With no one to trulycontest him, the older nightwalker could have simply given it to himself. Not that Yanin couldn't understand the motivation. Titles were useful.
"Sir Yanin Glade," he simply stated. "Lieutenant of Fadewatchers." And promptly seemed to lose all interest in the nightwalkers for the time being, physically turning his attention to the manor, and tangentially to two deigan and the penin, instead.

"Jordan Forthey, squire of the Glades," Jordan offered next to and behind him, looking from Freagon to the "boy" who had not even been bothered to be named. Looked to be around his age, despite, apparently, only being a page still. And both of them were older than when Sir Yanin had been when knighted, although he was admittedly a bit of a special case. He shrugged. "Also a Fadewatcher, as of two years ago."

The others were busy requesting the manor inhabitants for more info, albeit in a rather verbose manner to contrast Yanin's own, rather terse manner of requesting information. It was only wonder people weren't more impatient than they appeared. Or perhaps the residents just hid it too well for Yanin to recognize it wt the best of his ability. Most likely the latter.
How many there were, who or what they were, what could they do... Probably a bit much to ask for the internal outlay of the building at this stage. They'd have to see as they go. Other questions, the two deigan mostly covered. Wraiths - at least four of them, perhaps uncontrolled, though no apparent magic. Yanin took a closer look at the - apparently steel - spear he was looking, and visibly scoffed. Seven guests, including the Melenian summoner and three overactive vigilantes.
"Not the first time?" he said at Irah, in a lowered tone. And, turning his head, mostly at Jordan, though equally loud and clear for anyone else who bothered to listen. "You use iron - the purer the better. Or magic." Much more pragmatic than simply announcing that he had heard about wraiths.

"Is summoning not illegal in Melenia or something?" Jordan asked, brow furrowed. A more socially adept individual might have inferred that is was a mostly rhetorical question rather than one he actually needed an answer to right then an there. Just ... sheer incredulousness at someone being dumb enough to just tell a room full of strangers that you were a summoner in a place were summoning most definitely was illegal.

The dark-skinned individual moved closer, the deep-red eyes looking from one to another as she urged each of them to hurry on before the wraiths could do even more damage. Now that he could see her up close, rather than through the slits of his visor and from more than hundred meters away with both of them running each in their own vaguely converging direction, it was also evident that the ears poking through her hair were long and pointed. Not human, then. Not that it mattered much at this time.
"Are you a fire elementalist?" he inquired, even as he tilted his head to observe the manor's iron fence. "And you're right. We can talk later. If someone has any iron at hand to spare, speak up. If anyone has not prepared something that might convince the wraiths to disperse, do so now. Wraiths can look like anything, as far as I know."
The manor looked still, deceptively peaceful. Door closed. No one close enough to windows to be seen. They'd probably have to breach again.
If no one had anything to offer, he began making his way toward the manor, , Jordan following him, wary and always keeping to the side of the door, keeping his attention divided on all of his surroundings with an almost inhuman diligence. As much as he lacked in making sense of the minute - and not so minute - details of humanoid expressions and intonations, he could notice many other details others missed. Especially if anything moved or made a sound.

A figure in dark green lingered behind, unarmored and apparently mostly unarmed - save for a dagger and a set of surgical implements.
"You're injured," she stated at the large man in brigandine armor as she sashayed closer, low voice quiet. "Is anyone else?"
It was a big manor for just a handful of people. She was moderately well-off herself - but she shared a much smaller two-storey building with two other business fronts with their owners' and their families' living quarters on the upper floor.