Two things drew Frederick from his reverie, two strange, yet familiar forces acting on his senses. The first sensation was the the man next to him mumbling something that the half-elf didn't quite catch. A moment afterwards, a bright light entered his periphery, and a warm sensation spread through his body, mending the lacerations on his back, arms, chest and legs. Letting out a small sigh of relief, he turned his head to his healer while still leaning on the bar. Noting the healer's commands to stay still, Frederick puzzled as to how the man was using his magic, when the magus himself could barely conjure a flame.

Turning his thoughts inwards, he mulled over the second sensation. His training as a Witch Hunter and Magus of the Order had imparted him the ability to sense the identity of unnatural beings. Demons gave off a terrifying aura, one that seemed to be created from a miasma of tortured screams and blasphemous chants, the undead gave off a cold aura, as if they were missing something, a spark of light and warmth. And it was that feeling of wrongness that Frederick felt, but at the same time it was... different. Like the healing magic being performed on him, it subtly different, like smelling a mother's soup, only prepared by another. Tantalizingly familiar, yet maddeningly different.

He felt the wrongness coming from behind him, at one of the tables situated around the inn's dining floor. Due to his position, he couldn't see the undead being, placing himself at a disadvantage. Deciding to take a risk, the half-elf pulsed the room with his magical aura, a mixture of magical and holy energies. The pulse was little more than a faint ring of distortion, a slight mirage emanating from his body. It was colorless and soundless, though it would be felt by all beings it came into contact with.