Shienvien

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The fallen angel specified that his return to Drigall was not imminent, and specified that the spirit of the sartal sword was a very powerful mundane. A mage who is not quite undead? Would that be what a lich feels like? It was probably hard for even Caleb to tell much more, not unless the angel could somehow see if Delian Gilmah herself left the same kind of impression.

Caleb itself seemed to be persistently curious whether he'd allow it to leave. Deo'Irah offered no resistance, but also reaffirmed Yanin's earlier note that while being a divine was not illegal, people would still be prejudiced, especially here and now, so soon after two incidents that by all means could be described as massacres.
Sort of rendering itself unseen, there might not have been all that many disguises that would work - Lady Bor and her people likely knew how many had gone in, the various bits and pieces of five of the guests were spread all over the hall for all to see, and Feveesha herself would likely have been in deep trouble, had she lived. And the last guest was, by the appearance of it, still alive, the other issues with impersonation aside.
"Provided you have been telling the truth, I don't have a reason to keep you from leaving once I've fully figured out what exactly happened in here," the human knight stated. "As you probably haven't been in Rodoria beforehand, I'd also recommend familiarizing yourself with the local law. Hard to avoid conflict when you don't know what would cause it."

Deo'Irah had more things to share, a lot of which he had suspected - though confirmation, offered willingly, meant a lot. Probably more than the deigan could infer from his fairly formal, laconic reply, carried out in what was a close match for his usual voice, just lowered. Usually, people would assume that anything could be used against them. And too trusting people who had enough power to do harm didn't last long. Nevertheless, if he had more knowledge, he could at the very least mentally prepare for potential future scenarios.
Yanin wasn't confident his younger sister was any safer in Zerul than she had been at home. Especially with talks of what could only assumed to be covert equivalent of a coup.
"Good to know. I appreciate you telling me, and the risk you take with it. Best to be more conservative, if possible; I won't always be the the only person perceptive enough to notice." It was as he had already told Caleb - he could only do so much against the prejudices of other people, and that was before it came to matters that were explicitly illegal.
Mostly for arguably good reasons - there was much harm one could do commanding someone akin to an angel of fear, and a lot of people striving to be summoners did have nefarious intent in mind. So the land had collectively decided to root out as much of the knowledge itself before it could even found its way into wrong hands. Left one to wonder, though, if the well-meaning and genuinely concerned lawmakers hadn't designed a system that was too rigid - and vulnerable for it.
If people who called forth iriao who themselves wanted to help were treated the same as summoners of orlgarhi, it left fewer people who could heal the injured, and no one at all who could hope to take the orlgarh out without actually fighting it. There was probably a better point of balance - but that would require a lot of careful consideration, and enough sway to make an entire country listen.
The human knight sighed, setting the thought aside for the time being, before delving too deep into matters that felt suspiciously like politics. For now, there were people to watch in the room, and happenings to analyze.

Jordan Forthey and Nabisisstra Rhe'anyl Qelarn

The squire could, realistically, do very little but listen during the whole debacle.
He had spoken up in the beginning, and perhaps won the others some time, but from then on, first Madara, and later Deo'Irah and, somewhat surprisingly but also decidedly unsurprisingly, Sir Yanin took over. His master was the first one to admit he was not much of a people person, but this here was a combat scenario and a crime scene as much as it was a place of ... well, people socializing.
So the knight was just there, investigating and interrogating, ready to fight, while the more tactful of the two deigan, now sufficiently calmed, seemed to try and smooth things over. It was only after things had seemingly relaxed, and Sir Yanin addressed him and the dark-skinned foreigner directly - "Jordan, easterner, check the other rooms," - that there was something to act upon.

"Right," Jordan muttered, glancing at the stranger, "There is still the probability that the things we've been told are inaccurate, and that there are more things out there, so I definitely would appreciate you coming along."
There was a crash from the adjacent room, Sir Freagon saying something Jordan couldn't quite make out, and both the deigan healer and Sir Yanin expressing their displeasure.
"I ... think we better assume Sir has whatever is going on in there handled and focus on ... I think there is a ... one person, at least?"

"My name is Nabi, not 'easterner'... and I am fairly certain we have already had this discussion..." Nabi grumbled - loud enough so Yanin could hear her from the next room over - and nodded to Jordan. "Lead the way. We have one more person that remains... ehm... how do you say, unaccounted for? The Melenian, yes?"

To be fair, Jordan wasn't even entirely if Nabi had formally introduced herself to Sir Yanin - they'd only seen her after the alarms rang, and the entire mess kind of blended together after that.
"Right," Jordan muttered, pulling on the door that had ever so faithfully shielded them from divine energy, briefly pausing to give some more context to Nabi before he stepped into the corridor, "Unaccounted for, yes ... I think the Melenian was the one next door, who seems to have ... sacrificed herself maybe? And there was only one Melenian, so the final guest, should be something other. Human, maybe? Five of the others were ... or a deigan, or penin like Lady Bor, maybe." That was slightly too many maybes.
There was just one unopened door left in the hallway, in the opposite wall to the two rooms all the action had taken place in. The door creaked in protest as the human squire pushed it open, holding the silver sword out in front of himself, watching for motion on its gleaming blade before peering into the room past the door.
It was a bedroom - quite a bit larger than the one they had been in. It seemed undisturbed. The most notable thing about the room was a statue of a humanesque torso stood on a small coffee table, thin, rough and faceless.
"Seems undisturbed, I think," he noted, before turning and taking a couple steps to behold the scene within - which seemed to consist of a divine - a fallen thalk from the conversation he had overheard -, almost huddled next to a wall, Sir Yanin holding a guard, seemingly ready to act against either the thalk or anyone between him and the door (more specifically, Sir Freagon), and the two deigan, one intently staring at a bloodied book, the other trying to placate the divine.
Jordan ... hadn't seen the aftermath of a full summoning before. There was so much blood looked like the Melenian had exploded, bursting open like an over-ripe fruit to reveal what was an entity that by no means would have fit in her frame.
Despite his master having brandished his own blade once more, it appeared that things had at least calmed as quickly as they had escalated, this time.
"First floor, east wing; beware," Sir Yanin noted; Jordan simply nodded before moving along the corridor, to where Madara and Jaelnec still waited. Staring into the room wasn't going to help with finding the sole survivor.

The visage of the summoning was… disturbing to say the least for Nabi. She quickly turned away to calm her rapidly fraying nerves… and focused on the words of Yanin. The east wing… on the first floor. Nabi followed Jordan, her sabre at the ready in her hand just in case there was another unwelcome surprise, even if it was unlikely given the situation.
She decided to at least communicate with Jordan - in a low, quiet voice, she said, “I am beginning to think I would have been best tracking the… ehm… bandits… from the start. So far this has all been very far out of my comfort zone… especially the ground floor…”

"Ain't that a familiar feeling..." Jordan muttered, glancing back at Nabi. "At times I just kind of hope I know what I'm doing. You did help, though. There were more of them than us, and if there's a thing that's obviously much worse than trying to fight an strong unfamiliar foe, it's trying to fight two of them at the same time."
Fundamentally, dealing with two opponents - even those who were not as fast or skilled as you - was exponentially harder than dealing with just one, and three or more bordered on impossible unless you could use the environment to make them fight you one at a time.
"For the town healer's - and the previous tracker's sake -, I definitely hope we can get to finding out what happened sooner rather than later. The mages might need to rest, and I think the local Fadewatchers still need the healers' aid, but I have no idea if we'd have that much time." If they were even both alive - if they captured Lady Bor's man, then ... well, it didn't exactly look like the bandits cared about sparing any would-be obstacles.
"Perhaps me and Sir Yanin - and maybe the nightwalkers - can follow a short distance back while you scout ahead?"

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

"Five," the fallen angel had stated, which matched what he had witnessed earlier. Often the only way to figure out the truth from falsehood was to keep checking things, even those he already knew, to see if a discrepancy cropped up - so he could hopefully figure out who, or what, was unreliable, and whether it was on purpose.
The thalk volunteering that there was another mundane in the building was certainly interesting - if it was accurate, and not another go at subterfuge to get rid of them, then that would mean that Feveesha had sacrificed herself alone, and the last guest was indeed alive.
Jordan should know enough to expect traps, and he'd already told him to take the dark one along and go inspect all rooms. Faintly, whoever was paying attention might make out some muffled low speaking from the next room, and bit later, the door tugged open.

Irah appeared to be agitated at Freagon; the latter simply noted that he could have killed the thalk. Yanin had no doubts about it - at least if it were just the two of them. The human knight didn't intend to let him, at least not as long as the thalk cooperated. It was no coincidence that he had placed himself directly between Freagon and the divine, and was watching the nightwalker as much as the thalk, or even just observing the room.
The fact that the old had managed to get a projectile - even a nondirectional one he had already been holding prior to the incident - past him was an abject failure. It would have been much harder with a dagger, granted. The nightwalker would have had to draw it first, and unlike a coin for the purposes of testing illusions, it actually needed to be point-first to be effective at killing. It was still a single, fluid motion, but one that was about a tenth of a second longer - enough to be intercepted. It was even possible to somewhat reliably intercept arrows - provided that you could see the archer aiming, and it was roughly at you. And it was just one of them.
Yanin made a mental note to ask anyone else he might need to interrogate to, quite literally, take cover. Preferably behind at least solid wood. Or alternatively just fully remove Freagon from the room. If he decided to put himself at greater risk to help with his investigation, then that was prerogative as a knight and Fadewatcher. If Freagon decided to be unreliable, he could stay out of it.
Of course it was ready to kill us. Someone else had already tried, and you announced quite clearly that you will kill it.
Bafflingly - even to Yanin and his general social insensitivity - the male deigan asked why Caleb appeared afraid. Clearly, there were at least three individuals in the room who could swiftly send him back where he had come from; it was cornered.
Against expectations, something did come of the details the fallen thalk offered freely. There was a spirit in the sartal sword, and someone in the other room was ... strange? Couldn't be Jordan; enough of him being around mages and sensitive folks of all ilk for someone to have noticed something before. The dark one, then. Did Freagon really interfere because he suspected the fallen angel of further tricks, or was it because he knew the divine could tell something about him he didn't wish them to hear?

There was a creak somewhere behind him as Jordan (presumably with Nabi in tow), very carefully, checked what was behind the lone door in the opposite wall of the hallway, and seemingly not finding anything much out of order, looked into the room where his master, Freagon, Lhirinthyl and now Irah congregated, eyes flicking from the Viper's blade to Caleb. If Deo'Irah or someone else happened to look at him, then his expression was a vague mix of uncertainty and inquisitiveness.

Yanin made no move to stop the female deigan as she entered the room; she seemed to be taking appropriate amounts of care. Freagon showed no such consideration, but by this point, he was reasonably certain he had gleaned all that could be, so he mostly just continued to watch for signs of hostility.
"First floor, east wing; beware," he noted to the squire, and the younger human disappeared from sight, only for some more hurried talking to occur once he was back in the hall.
Two angels; an iriao and? And, her earlier assertion had been wrong - the ability to draw energy from the divine realms was innate to thalks, not achieved through the deity they served.

"Leave - for the Neverrealm?" he inquired. "What will await you there?" That was largely out of curiosity, not any fact-checking. He had, though, wondered if there was even a place for the fallen in the divine realms. Maybe the denizens of Neverrealm, at least, were a touch more tolerant. Couldn't be that bad if Caleb still wanted to be there rather than here, potential hostilities of those outside the manor notwithstanding. He took a couple steps, still with weapons brandished, though no longer in active guard, as he followed Freagon in his attempt to locate his two missing rodlin. "Can you also tell what kind of spirit?"

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

It could not have been quite as simple as the fallen angel simply holing itself in, could it? Caleb here had managed to get itself involved before they arrived - a fair bit before they entered the building, judging by how long the illusion of the sobbing woman had been up.
"If it's impossible for you to stop someone you're certain is intent on killing you by other means, or escape, then killing them would generally count as self-defense, which is often considered excusable," Yanin recounted, seemingly impartial and simply stating facts as he apparently continued to observe the room. Usually. A divine - let alone a fallen angel or Caleb's kind- was less likely to be pardoned on the same grounds as a human. Unfortunate as it was, but the more you deviated from the ideal, the more predisposed against you people were likely to be.
A couple with silver swords - most likely the two witch-hunters he and the dark one had fought. It was quite likely it was Caleb's first time in Rodoria - and perhaps Feveesha's, if the carelessness of her revealing she was a summoner was anything to go by. It was lucky enough that the frentit-ghouls the fallen thalk had summoned met them rather than someone more vulnerable, and hence did only minor additional harm.
"How many ghouls did you create? In the future, it would best if no more were released - that, as a rule, won't be tolerated -, but for now, I am just trying to confirm the fates of everyone who was supposed to be in here, though I suspect I have already deduced." It was obvious enough for all but two of them, and inferrable for the latter.
It was possible items had been trapped within Caleb's newly formed body? Macabre, though it might explain how not even a scrap of fabric, a single finger- or footprint remained of the final guest. If they had entered the room first. And not attempted to fight Feveesha back as they were sacrificed. And not bled before being sacrificed themselves.
On the other hand, it was technically not even completely unthinkable the final guest had managed to flee before Lady Bor and her folks had gotten out, or hid somewhere else in the building. It was also exceedingly unlikely.
"Jordan, easterner, check the other rooms."

Freagon moved. In twentieth of a second, Yanin had - from a seemingly almost relaxed pose as he stood observing the room - tensed, angled the silver sword and truncheon toward Caleb and let go of the male deigan. In a tenth, the Viper's blade was out, moving into a guard toward Freagon as his eyes identified the flying object as a silver coin (not likely to be immediately lethal) and a half-step brought him into a balanced stance facing side towards both. In fifth of a second, while Caleb was still in the middle of beginning to stumble back, the human knight had halted himself, having fully expected the nightwalker to have used the coin as a distraction to make an opening to rush the divine before it could recover, but evidently not following up.
A couple seconds passed during which the fallen angel was crashing into a wall and the nightwalker stood still - whether because Yanin had reacted in a way he didn't expect or for some other reason, no one in the Realms had any damned way of knowing, before simply offering, “Not an illusion. Had to be sure.". Was that it, or was he just thinking on his feet?
"And you bloody couldn't figure out a way to test it that wasn't also an assault," the change in Yanin's voice subtler than could be anticipated. It wasn't really angrier as much as his speech was simply slightly faster, slightly louder, almost, but not quite snapping a reply.

Not even he was dumb enough to figure that someone, cornered and outnumbered, would just take a direct hit to the face and not assume it preceded going for a kill. Because he would assume that. He had, and the only reason he wasn't actually engaged at this point was because his reaction times were much better than average and he was presently not afraid for his life, so he actually had the presence of mind to process the absence of a follow-up.
It was still not even certain the same could be applied to Caleb, once it regained its footing.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Madara

There was a pause after her words, dense, nigh tangible. It sought for an answer; though she could not see its expression from her vantage point - if there even was one to be seen among all the glamour -, she could almost feel it reach the conclusion even before it voiced it. It didn't know. And simply as that, the burning sensation threatening to cook her inside out was reduced to almost nothing.
Feveesha mustn't have had the time to tell it. The most obvious reason to call upon a more potent ally would, of course, have been as simple as "save me", though less common motives wouldn't have been unheard of. In any case, it was now too late for the former, alas. Their new acquaintance would need to find a new purpose in life.

"Thank you for easing the burden on us." She figured it was safe enough assumption that if it knew enough to withdraw it, it was more than enough well aware what effect divine energy had on mundane life. It was safe information. And by all means, she was quite relieved she had less divine energy to endure.
Her shoulders relaxed slightly,though she didn't immediately move from her position as Irah, now more composed, took over the talking once more. For a while, she simply listened, absently brushing off invisible motes of dust from her shoulder.

Sir Yanin Glade

The human knight's helmet was about as impassionate as could be expected as the man behind the visor observed the reflections of the illusions being dropped, one by one, and - as claimed by Madara, who seemed to have more keen magical senses than him - the angel withdrawing its divine influence from them.
That alleviated, but did not wholly remove one problem. Even if it had opted out of passively wearing them down where they stood - for now -, it did not mean that the divine didn't continue to accumulate more energy for its own use. Time was still running out, merely slower.
This divine was fallen? Claimed to be so, at least. The fallen could drift from the forms and abilities they would ordinarily have had. Whether the ability to draw energy from the divine realm directly was dependent on the thalk having a connection to a deity or even more innate to their kind than that, Yanin didn't know. As far as he could reckon, it could go either way.

The question of whether the bandits were the same ones they had independently considered hunting down, however, was much simpler to answer.

"Indubitably," he affirmed, turning his head slightly. It was a small town; everyone Jordan or himself had spoken to had confirmed there was no other healer to speak of in Borstown, and both the resident Fadewatchers and Lady Bor's men had been rendered functionally inoperable - not that there had been many of the latter to begin with. Just three, one killed, one MIA, and one injured. "I saw the dead and was speaking with the locals before the the alarm rang. The bandits left both the manor and town defenseless and bleeding."
Not a wise situation to find yourself in when hosting opportunists of every ilk.
All the while, he was watching Freagon as keenly as he did anything else happening in the room, seeing him test out the flames and perform other, minute actions that could just as easily be precautions just in case as they could be indicators that he was still fully intent on remaining true to his words and trying to banish the angel as soon as any opportunity presented. The worst possibility wasn't that Yanin would need to fight the divine - it was having to deal with both Freagon and the divine concurrently, with unknown input from the others.

Thalks - if that was what it was, or had been - were known to be schemers, derived from people who had used others. Even now, it was entirely possible it was just trying to use them, somehow. It couldn't be fully trusted - but as far as the human knight knew, the same could be said for nearly anyone he met, even most of his allies. In that regard, it was hardly different from anyone else.
There was no telling what had lead it down whatever path it had taken in life - actual evil by nature, or unfortunate circumstance. Someone else in Yanin's place - born to a minor tyrant, a fearful mother who didn't have time to care, watching people covertly work to undermine one another and hiding behind smiles and courtesy, while having little ability to tell a true smile from a fake ... he did what he did because he thought it was right, despite everything. Maybe it was the few people he was relatively confident were actually good, and the hope that many others were, too, maybe it was, in some weird twist of fate, because he was an exceptional fighter but equally poor manipulator. If he was the opposite, a skilled negotiator with little ability to defend himself from physical threats?
Didn't really take that much for the average person to end up on the wrong side. Becoming an angel effectively erased your past. Could give 'Caleb' here the benefit of the doubt for now, especially since... If it, indeed, was fallen, what, if anything, would even be waiting for it back in the divine realm it came from.
Fuck it, could be a cruel and unusual punishment by itself.

Deo'Irah introduced herself, as Caleb had, and the illusions - presumably the final ones - were dropped. Irah's words seemed to confirm that a fallen thalk would indeed, not have the usual advantage of pouring in divine energy usually associated with their kind. Definite knowledge or conjecture?
"I concur with her; as long as I can remain reasonably confident you have caused no undue harm to anyone in these lands, there is no reason to detain or send you back."
It wasn't the only issue. There were always two or more sides to each matter, and even if Caleb behaved itself, the fallen angel's presence alone was wont to draw some unwanted attention. Lady Bor had sworn at the witch-hunters rather than blaming the Melenian. Could be a bit more sympathetic than most. He had absolutely no idea if any other villagers would be as open-minded, even if, strictly speaking, Deo'Irah and Lhirinthyl were the ones still alive committing all the crimes.
Not that the ones outside would have any knowledge of it yet - hopefully -, but they nevertheless needed to be more conservative with their knowledge, skill and illicit substances. Even if they could trust the ones in here, more people with some knowledge and the ability to discern minute discrepancies were bound to notice sooner or later, and even if he himself didn't see the worth in taking someone down for no good cause, but rather simply treated the illegality of the means as aggravating circumstance where true evil had been wantonly brought upon those undeserving, not everyone would bother, or even want to make the distinction.
"Being a divine in itself is not illegal, but it's only so far I can control the prejudices of other people. You might still want to disguise yourself once it's no longer just us." Might be as soon as leaving the manor. Only a few more things to ascertain.

Shifting both the silver sword and truncheon to his left hand and dropping them both to his side (not that he truly let go of his readiness to fight), he finally stepped out from his position behind the door and over the threshold, carefully avoiding the abundant blood and observing the trails and markings in the room, placing himself just ahead of Freagon.
If Caleb hadn't believed Jordan's words of the silver swords not belonging to them, then the presence of another sword and dagger on his person, as well as the complete absence of anywhere to store the surplus arms probably confirmed it.
"I am Sir Yanin Glade," he stated, simply. "Here's to hoping the day ends better than it began."

He knew one Melenian had entered - no corpse remained. One guest was still, technically, unaccounted for. The fallen thalk was tall enough for even Yanin to be barely more than chin-height; it more than likely required more than just one female Melenian, slight as they were, to shape its flesh - if self-sacrifice was indeed even an option. So by means of simple elimination, that's where the unaccounted-for guest should have gone.
Wouldn't any attire remain behind? Objects that obviously belonged to the final guest rather than Feveesha? Footprints or handprints that weren't shaped like Melenian paws (she definitely wouldn't have been carrying anyone bigger than her in, bleeding as heavily as she did, that much was certain), signs of struggle rather than just the felid rummaging through her own things. Just a confirmation or contradiction. Lady Vela Bor or her servants might know who it was, at least, but he still figured it deserved checking.
There was a rustle somewhere behind him, and Lhirinthyl attempted to brush past, evidently noticing the tattered book on the bed. He didn't get far before a gauntlet fell on his shoulder - somewhat ironically, not because Yanin was any more conscious of the fragility of their truce, but quite simply because the mage was trampling all over the scene he was still investigating.
"Wait," he noted to the deigan, and then, seemingly aimed at Caleb, even if his posture seemed to indicate he was still observing the room "Would you happen to know if any of the things in the room - other than the furniture - are not Feveesha's?"

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

He hadn't had much time to mull over Deo'Irah's note that divine energy was invisible, odorless, silent, intangible in the direct sense, but ... itchy, painful, exhausting. A bit like a sunburn, or lye, perhaps ... those, too, felt like nothing at first, but then started burning, itching, and finally, your skin started peeling off. Except, for excess contamination with divine energy, in the end, you also died.
That did not seem to be like a pleasant way to go, if there even was such a thing. So, how soon would I know if too much was too much? went unasked.
"It moves fast," Sir Yanin had noted, almost inaudible. He always seemed to listen, and have unusually good hearing at that.

Once opening the second door, odd warmth and numbness taking over his body - was it the fire he heard, the hopefully minuscule amounts of divine energy seeping through the door he and the dark-skinned woman had just passed, just him responding to a new threat before even fully winding down from the last? - he was confronted with ... nothing? Carefully peering through the crack between the door and its frame, and glancing at the rear corner behind him, he came face to-face with little more than a quite nice, if a bit sparse bedroom. No fireplaces, no additional doors, just a bed that on any other day, would have looked quite inviting, a table, some chairs and candleholders...
Neglecting the idea that this, too, might be a trick, he turned his attention to the minor commotion ensuing in the corridor, which seemed to involve his master preparing to open his door and Sir Freagon simply opting to stand in front of it to -
Jordan's eyes widened as Sir Yanin quickly motioned him to back down with his sword-hand, even as the rest of the human knight's body remained motionless.
He trusted his master's judgement in matters of combat, so he didn't even think, let alone question it, he just grabbed the foreigner by her shoulder, half-showing her in, and slamming the door after himself, just as another crash indicated that the nightwalker-knight had probably just opted to kick the first door open.
"Sorry-that--" he began to apologize to the dark-skinned woman, slightly out of breath and not really having a pause between the words.
“Stop!” a voice boomed, and the squire flinched.
"--meant... get... back," he finished, much quieter, and now leaving too much of a pause between words.
The corridor was probably flooded with divine energy now, was it not? Maybe diluted compared to what it had been in the more enclosed space, but flooded regardless. The door here would probably slow it down again, maybe for even longer than the first one had... He could...
Would it - at least some of it get out if he were to open a window or something, like you could with smoke? Half dazed, he meandered several steps closer to the window ... no, he didn't think it could be opened, not unless he decided to whack it with the truncheon until it simply shattered. Which ... he might do if he felt his skin starting to crawl and burn, he guessed. Doing so now probably wouldn't help the ones in the corridor, but maybe it would be worth the further disrespect of Lady Vela Bor's property if it meant not having all of everyone's skin peel off. And then death.
"I said stop," the voice of what Jordan could only presume was the divine thundered again, even louder, “Not one more step, villain!”
"Talk," another voice said ... that was Sir Freagon, he thought.

"I don't think the window can be opened, but we might have to break it if there is too much divine energy ... I think," he muttered to the foreigner, resigned, as he moved back to the door. It's not like he had anything more useful to do here, but listen.
It was the divine who spoke again. It? He? He sounded wrathful. “You hound summoners and divines mercilessly, come here to destroy me, and you bring your own angel slaves? Disgusting creatures!”
The what now!? In spite the circumstances, the notion was enough to give him a pause. Well, it couldn't have been aimed at him or Sir Yanin, because neither of them was proficient enough with the right kind of magic to even try to summon anyone, and at least Sir Freagon seemed to think the Melenian was dead, so who--
It was Deo'Irah who answered, in Fermian, which Jordan couldn't comprehend past simple greetings and farewells and thank yous. He thought he heard Reina's name, though, and the deigan's voice was uncharacteristically (what he knew of her character, anyway) irate, icy, enraged even. He would probably finish digesting her hidden skills afterwards, once he can stop wondering if his skin would slough off or if everyone in the corridor would, without warning, just be reduced into charred smears on the opposing wall.
“You expect me to believe anything you say? This one comes here bearing a silver sword and declared that he would kill me, and even you said you would see me banished or slain. You mundanes are all the same. A conversation? What would that solve? You said it yourself: I do not belong here, and someone had to…" Pause. "To die for me to be here. Because of you!”
Well, standing here was probably utterly useless ... talking, though, was usually ... often, his job, though. Sir Yanin was more of a 'what do you want' and then either agreeing with it or not agreeing with it kind of person.

"Uh, my lord, if I may..." he began, staring at the door. What was the correct way to address divines, anyway? "We are not with the one summoning you, nor the ones hunting her. The swords aren't ours, either, we picked those up after coming in because the ... the frentits I guess already had them." What was he even doing? "We all were just nearby and were told there were guests still inside..." Fighting ... divines. "See if there was anyone left to help."
The divine certainly had much better hearing than could be expected, though it probably had little to knowledge what had ensued before it had been summoned, nor what had been said outside. Should he try to convince the divine to go home? Distract it? Would be impolite to just ask if it wouldn't prefer to leave without a fight?

He ... honestly had no idea. He felt vaguely faint.

Madara

The half-palanter had tailed the group, remaining stood by the entry to the hallway as the combatants took in their places, and Freagon, without further ado, promptly kicked the door in. She had felt the odd itch and heat crawling upon her skin, not pleasant, but stinging, scraping, like caustic sap. Were there really anyone mundane left in that room, it certainly didn't bode well to their sustained wellbeing.
Once to flood of divine energy unleashed by the opening door hit her, she actually jolted backwards as if dodging an invisible punch, teeth baring in a primordial callback to an ancestral inhuman beast, one reminiscent to the winged palanteran form. This expression of a cornered animal, brought upon her visage by expected, but still abrupt pain, disappeared quickly, replaced by a stern expression as she straightened her back, drew close to a wall, and listened to the exchange.
Deo'Irah had brought an angel of her own? Huh. Pity she could not speak Fermian; the deigan seemed quite displeased indeed, whether it was with the reveal of her secrets or something else was anyone non-Fermian-speaking's guess. Jordan tried to, a bit haltingly, explain the situation once the angel claimed they wanted naught but violence.

"Indeed; we are strangers to this house, to one another, and to whoever used to be in here before us. I, for one, am simply a healer and a seamstress - as a rule, I don't fight at all." Well, not unless she was absolutely cornered and there was no way for her to simply remove herself and, if possible, whoever was her patient at the time. "It was implied there would be injured here, was it not?" A deception in one count, and a lost cause in the case of all others, but an implication regardless. "Whom would you expect to draw in with such a call?"
A person bent on murder alone would be indifferent, would they not? Luring healers in just to mercilessly murder them was a strategy befitting of the true evil, lowest of the low, so if the angel's pause before admitting people had to die for him to be summoned wasn't but another feint and cruel deception, then surely he'd agree with this much?
"We were not welcomed most kindly, however." That much was true; the combat-ready lot might have been ready to fight, but the lesser divines were the ones to give one of them a good tossing around first. None of them were so kind as to have a nice little chat over a cup of tea and discuss what exactly went wrong. "I would hope that you might excuse those who, as a consequence, might a bit predisposed towards more violent solutions." Was it her duty to excuse the old nightwalker's bluntness? Perhaps not, but she had already left patients waiting to be here, and she had absolutely no interest in adding to the dead and injured.
And your mere presence, it burns,, as yourself and our new knight acquaintance certainly are aware of. That didn't particularly help matters, either.
"If it is not suffering and death you yearn for, what is it that you seek in staying here?"

Sir Yanin Glade

Impatient, the human knight noted at Freagon's behavior, almost reflexively motioning Jordan (and indirectly, the dark one) to remove themselves from the scene.
These doors weren't particularly soundproof. If they were needed and could be useful, they could be called. Until then, it was more reasonable to spare them from being cooked alive while they waited for the need to engage. Anything that could take the four of them here out before they could even call out? Nothing they could do, anyway. If they were wise, they'd just jump from the window, evacuate the town, and find whatever Deo'iel they could to sort the divine out, if it didn't feel like leaving Reniam on its own. The same went for the two waiting by the end of the corridor, besides the differing exit route.
And if they were somehow, against all odds, severely injured, but not killed? Better to have someone with enough strength left to drag them out, if the place really teemed with divine energy.
The effect from Freagon kicking the door open was not quite as immediate as he had anticipated. Perhaps it had not been long enough, was less immediately obvious than he'd thought, the divine was sinking so much of it into its deception that it accumulated only gradually, or Deo'Irah had misjudged. Fire - warm, bright, but not burning the floor. Not natural. Hostages? Archangel? He'd read about them, but meeting one had, until now, remained vastly unlikely.

Everything could be a lie.

The six wings were unmistakable, but much like the fire, and the hostages, it could be naught but a glamourous feat of magic. Freagon had tossed a silver coin at one of the hostages to confirm the last item. Clever, but aside of confirming that there was no one in that spot to save, maybe not overly conductive for making a plan of action.
It was, indubitably, much more probable that it was a thalk pretending to be an archangel, hostages, and a wall of fire than a Melenian, only having one sacrifice to give - two, if surrendering herself to the ritual was plausible, three or more only if there was someone entirely accounted for -, wounded, half-mad with piaan, managing to successfully summon one of the most powerful divines short of a full god.
The fire, if it wasn't vastly more potent than that of a furnace, could be passed without harm; the lightning, if more than a vision, could be fatal if not interrupted. Care to throw a handful of coins at the angel to see if his wings are real? That was unfortunately wont to be interpreted as beginning of an assault. He could figure as much.
The angel was yelling. "Your own angel slaves?" Based on Deo'Irah's response, that was her, and she referred to the entity she had evidently been hosting as a friend. Necromancer and a summoner?
Unlike the Melenian, the only one - if what the deigan claimed about her and the divine's relationship was accurate - Deo'Irah had been harming with her choice to bring angels to this place was herself. Even with the Melenian, the whole shitshow could have been averted simply by the other guests not immediately acting upon the information. If there was ever a case to demonstrate why both summoning and vigilantism were illegal, that was probably it...
For the sake of everyone, he hoped Deo'Irah would be far more careful with her arts than that.

"You expect me to believe anything you say?" That was, ultimately, mutual. It had brought them there with a lie, and persisted the deception even now. Even its very kind remained suspect. Ironically, it would probably just as easy for an archangel to pretend to be a thalk, so even if it claimed to drop its disguise, it could to the opposite. Lies upon lies upon lies.
Curiously, either it wasn't able to tell him and Freagon apart by voice, or it failed to differentiate silver from sartal in spite of their vastly different magical properties.
Even as Jordan and the half-palanter took turns in trying to explain the situation, perhaps to placate the divine and find amicable solution, time was ticking - now truly ticking, ever since Freagon had made the move. If it was a thalk in disguise, ten seconds of coordinated combat, even up close, was hardly comparable to the accumulated exposure standing around for, by now, closing in for a minute and a half. Opening the door, aware of the apparent wall of flames right behind it, and then proceeding to talk was the worst combination of both options possible.
Yanin himself didn't feel the more obvious effects of the divine energy - yet. But he was also not magically exhausted before entering the room, and mages were usually a bit more attuned to picking things up like that. He was, for all intents and purposes, more or less average for humans.
It didn't escape his attention that Lhirinthyl covertly downed something. Piaan? Too much to endure without? Expecting a fight?
If they decided to fight, about two seconds of the opposing magic being disrupted and the glamours dropped would be enough. It was unfortunate that they had no meaningful, mutually agreed for way to coordinate.

For all their repeated insistences that they needed to hurry, the others always seemed to talk too much. He hadn't had the time to interject - it was at this moment that Madara finished speaking. He'd give it another half a minute - enough for the angel to reply. After that - presuming the divine didn't take offense to the others and attack -, he only really had one question of his own. Would probably initiate the fight immediately if it didn't comply ... but time would run out either way, and if they had to fight, it was better to do so before their ability to do so degraded too much.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

The human squire listened, eyes moving from one speaker to the next. The foreigner offered she was good at tracking - something which Sir Yanin seemed almost dismissive of... Probably because, in this given instance, the location of their objective wasn't exactly unknown, as evidenced by the noise and - now that Jordan himself was standing higher up on the stairs - the rather self-evident trails of blood. Afterwards, though?
"It would definitely be of use, later," he offered to the dark-skinned woman in a rushed, hushed tone, "We are missing, I guess, at least two people from this town and I suppose there is also some kind of bandit outpost nearby that needs finding." The others continued speaking, silencing the guy for a moment.
Illusion. That answered the question of why there was seemingly still a mundane alive, though not necessarily why the thalk would sit around waiting for someone to come to ... him? it? Sir Yanin had said they looked much like tall humans with red skin.
As a notion that was probably only blatantly obvious to him, Sir Yanin did not seem to have any particular qualms with Sir Freagon offering to take killing the divine upon himself. That was mostly how the human knight operated: silence meant he was fine with whatever he heard. Sir Yanin, as a general rule, had no particular drive to be the only one to do everything. If he had, he would have opted to work exclusively alone, he'd said as much. If Sir Freagon felt like volunteering, then he could.
If it had been Jordan saying the same, however, then he'd most likely have been countered with a 'you'd get yourself killed' before he could close his mouth. Annoyingly, he'd most likely be right. Almost equally annoyingly, this brief encounter seemed to have been enough for him to rule the old nightwalker able to live up to his words (or at least not fail immediately and catastrophically), be it by some virtue of hearsay only his master was privy to, or just by observing his equipment and him fighting, ever so briefly.
All deduction from being around the other for eight years and counting. Even if Sir Yanin's face had not been concealed behind his helmet, there was little information to be gleaned from it. He just watched and listened, not even the people, just the doors above, almost statuesque.

"A quick clarification -" this was aimed at Deo'Irah, as she seemed to be the most knowledgeable in the matter "- if we open the door, will divine energy come spilling forth like water from a broken dam, or more like a creeping bank of fog?" It was probably completely invisible and nigh intangible until your skin began to resemble that of a shirtless drunk passed out in full summer sun, of course, but just to have a better idea of what was going to happen. Walls and doors seemed to be able to contain it - that much his master had known to share -, but other than that, new territory.
Better to have a plan. Maybe a few plans. The human knight's only question was simple - can they get rid of the illusion? Lhirinthyl's response was more about the nature he suspected the spell to have, but offered little in the ways of a direct counter.
The female deigan could offer little more. "I can only offer my senses, which are impeded by the divine energy. Should I notice something, I will say."
The foreigner's reply was the least verbose:"Uh, no, sorry.".
"Then we'll have do make do with assuming everything could be a lie. More so if it doesn't quite fit."

The human knight ascended slowly - and surprisingly quietly for someone in full armor, well oiled and fluid in motion, nary more than the faintest tink of a link of mail falling in place against another.
Right. The first two doors of the hallway, in the side they could see, appeared identical, no visible locks, just an unassuming bar-handle. Hinges on the left. Probably ... if he was correct, opening inwards, into the rooms? As they neared the rooms, Sir Yanin motioned the silver sword towards the lower edge of the first door.
Unlike with the communication between the deigan, this gesture lacked any covertness. The knight was just pointing it out in a sweeping motion to anyone who cared to pay attention, blade carefully kept high enough up to not reflect anything back. Light could betray if someone was behind a door, or a corner. Light could also betray you if it cast a shadow of you onto something.
Jordan trained his eyes on the light, flickering and dim, maybe cast by a flame. There were no obvious breaks in it, he didn't think, as one would expect if there were furniture or people standing between the source of the light and the door. Actually, neither did it seem to come from a specific side, either, as you'd expect from a fireplace (had there been any chimneys on the roof?), so was it magic, or lamps? Or ... had someone made a campfire right behind the door? Wouldn't smoke be seeping out from the upper edge of the door yet, if that were the case?
There was the cracking of fire, at least. Lamps, oil didn't crack quite like that. The crying was louder.
Smelled like ... well, that could have just been the burning rags and wood and charred ghoul and blood from below. Also, was it just him, or was it getting warmer?
In one measured, quick motion, sound swallowed by the sobs and snaps, the human knight was with his back against the wall on the opposite side of the door, truncheon blocking anyone of standard human strength from opening it, yet nevertheless held so that if a force far beyond a human were to tear it open - or blast it out, it would wrench the iron away quite harmlessly, and not crush the knight's had between metal and shatter his bones.
For a second he stilled, listening, then motioned the two deigan, the dark one and Jordan past - quiet, fast, do not linger behind doors and in lines of sight, and for Sir Freagon to move to the other side of the door. As the others passed, the knight raised the silver sword, observing the reflection of the door on its blade. Might give a split-second advantage in reacting. Might be more than deciding.
The nerve of impending fight creeping in, Jordan mirrored his master behind the second door, quietly motioning the foreigner to be on the opposite side to the door if she weren't already. Sir Yanin shifted from latching the door handle to simply resting the end of it against the door's surface, quite possibly to push it open.

Nothing more immediate ensuing, Jordan tried showing his - the second - door open with the truncheon, barring immediate reaction slowly peering in, reflection, light and line of sight (anything? connecting doors? place to hide from divine energy? the noise, at least, seemed to come from the first room only...). If Sir Freagon indicated Sir Yanin to do the same, he would. The nightwalker had, after all, effectively volunteered to go first. Also, they wouldn't have fit in precisely shoulder-to-shoulder.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The human knight gave little outward acknowledgement of Freagon's notion that he'd prefer the boy didn't fight, besides a soft, "Hmm". Guy looked to be close to Jordan's age, give or take - which, given he was a nightwalker, probably meant that he was older than Yanin himself. For the time being, though, that reasonably meant that he could left where he was, as the two non-combatants, not involved aside of being maybe not entirely defenseless, should some kind of nasty surprise arise. All they'd need to do was hold on until someone else could disengage.

His knowledge of what alchemical or chemical compounds would, or wouldn't affect divines was, quite naturally, inferior to the half-palanter, which was to say, he didn't have a clue.

“The Melenian is the last person here as far as we know,” Freagon took the time to remind everyone.
They didn't know, though. They had concluded, given what little information was available. It was the straightforward deduction. And yet, the old nightwalker was also insisting the crying didn't sound Melenian which he couldn't fully conform or deny. Their voice was quite tonally different, inhuman, that much was true. Sobbing, however, was not necessarily as distinct - insofar it was an atypical vocalization he had not heard before. For the time being, it was at least probable Freagon's assessment - at least in regards to the Melenian-ness of the entity producing the noise - was accurate.
"A trap set up before we even entered the building," Yanin noted; at this time he was mostly thinking loudly. Spared time.
He had already heard the sobbing from outside. The second wave of ghouls and wraiths had seemingly acted on a cue, but the crying had remained unchanged. If the supposed thalk was orchestrating it all, it certainly seemed like it liked setting up stages. He had brought up the idea of the divine, possessing the Melenian, managing to summon a body for itself using the unseen seventh guest as a sacrifice - a possibility which neither Freagon or Deo'Irah had countered. The latter even confirmed her originally summoning the divine into herself was a possibility.
"Unless the Melenian herself, on piaan and half-bled out, managed to become the sacrifice, and the seventh guest remains." Lady Bor had only said the summoner was the only Melenian - Yanin didn't seem to recall her specifying she was the only female guest. Might also explain why she had not been offed by the divine or the taint, if she managed to lock herself up in the adjacent room, and not with the divine ... or she could be by the thalk's feet, slowly cooked by the divine energy while the angel waited on whoever would show up. A major issue for them, however, was the extent of the trickery.
"If that's not a thalk's normal vocal range, nor the seventh guest, we might as well assume everything could be an illusion." Make the fighters fight figments of light, heck, make them run through a corpse or a potential lone survivor...
The dark one spoke - offering her aid in tracking.
"We'll see. One thing at a time. Now, any one of you three have a means to dispel illusions and the energy to use them? We will need the truth of what we're fighting against."
And that was that: the one last question to ask before taking position and breaching. As far as Yanin was concerned, Freagon could have his kill - as long as they knew exactly what he was killing.

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.]]