One of Irenaeus' feline ears twitched in contemplation as the Firebrand spoke to him. It was not the first time he had heard his native language since leaving home- indeed the pride inherent to the Iath often meant any he met in his travels would default to their native tongue when possible. What better language was there, after all? To those of his homeland, that answer was clearly none. Still, as a greeting it struck him as odd. Was he so absorbed by the cultures of Delad that he somehow looked... foreign to his own people? Regardless, he obliged the woman with the only answer that was required.

"[color=00ffbb][i]Bel'kostna.[/i][/color]"

It was a single word, but much could be gleaned about Irenaeus from it's utterance. The accent he unconsciously slipped into spoke of the coast, with a harsh and quick rasp rarely found closer to the heartland of Kyir. Furthermore, the clear and formal manner in which he replied spoke of a refinement that would not be found in those without wealth or power amongst their people. More informative than either of those things though was the word itself. Bel'kostna roughly would translate to "Unborn" or those Iath who had not stepped foot upon Kyir. More accurately, those who had not stepped foot on Kyir [i]yet[/i], for there was little doubt to any native Iath that there were those of their kind who would choose to shun their homeland. It spoke of the pride, or rather arrogance, so often associated with his people.

He focused his attention then on the young Uquii, trying to retain all the information she was throwing at him. Primarily he focused on three points: His glasses, Silverbrook, and his identity. Two at least of which he was happy to oblige her with conversation about. Tracking down the merchant for another pair would be a pain in the ass, but maybe that job The Five Roads had done to get the glasses would end up paying dividends today, if the Uquii had the money to do business that is.

"[color=00ffbb]Well, let's see...[/color]"

He began, removing the glasses and holding them up in the air, towards where the sun was presently located. Irenaeus stroked his chin as if deep in thought for a moment before placing them in front of his eyes once more and turning to the girl. 

"[color=00ffbb]These glasses were made by Alfonso Padovano himself back when the Padovano family were artisans of glassmaking and not the cheap mass production oriented sellouts his great great grandchildren have become. Not factoring in an added charge for being an antique, these were purchased over one hundred years ago, in bulk, back when few had even heard of the things, let alone specialized in making them. Then factoring the fee to transport these through customs across the border, and paying the well compensated guards for the shipment... Adjusted for more than a hundred years of inflation...[/color]"

He stopped once more, this time actually lost in his own thoughts rather than putting on a show for theatrics. This wasn't a number he had ever tried to calculate before, although having a successful merchant of a mother meant his education in financial matters was anything but lacking.

"[color=00ffbb]About eighty gold disks would be appropriate. Although I could knock off a good ten percent if you happen to have some Bear's Rest honey with you. I never traveled to Silverbrooks, personally, but as I recall the two are only a few dozen miles apart. I've never had a better tea in my life than what they served me there with a bit of that honey mixed in, with the smell of Moondrop flowers enriching the evening air.[/color]

He sighed then, the memory decades gone filling him with contentment. That and it gave him time to stall and think of an alias. Truthfully the thought of ignoring the question of his identity altogether and hoping it got lost in the shuffle of conversation occurred to him, but that could come to bite him later if he was asked when ill prepared. Shouting caught his ear in the distance, but he tried to ignore it for the moment. There were always shouts somewhere in the city.

"[color=00ffbb]As for who exactly I am-[/color]"

"[color=ff7518]THE UNDEAD!!![/color]"

Ignoring the shouting no longer, he whipped his head towards the speaker and his voice turned to a growl. Irenaeus' knuckles turned white on the hilt of Arielle, and he felt the hairs on his tail begin to puff outward. He hated the undead. One mission with the Five Roads was enough to instill that hatred in him for a lifetime, and not only because they were sick affronts to life and nature. Put quite simply: They were unpleasant in every way to deal with. Bone and metal weren't exactly the best materials to attack with a sword, and on top of that the [i]aura[/i] of necromancy was enough to ruin the memory of a day forever.

"[color=00ffbb]- a soon to be a dead fool.[/color]"

He finally answered, removing his hand from the hilt of Arielle and placing it under the crossguard of his well worn longsword. He readied himself to draw it by the blade, and use the hilt as a makeshift hammer if he couldn't find a club or some sort of blunt weapon before the fighting began. There was no doubt in the Iath's mind that Arielle would be sufficient to hack through most of the undead, but it would be an insult to the sword to force it into such a filthy task. No, that would be a last resort. With his mind set, he took a step towards the knight who was engaging Annevar in order to offer his services when all at once his afternoon was ruined.

Firstly, Irenaeus' sensitive ears were left ringing and he was nearly knocked over by the eruption of the fountain next to him. Secondly his right hand, the only free one as his left had finished drawing his sword by reflex, was completely numbed by the large stone he had plucked out of the air before it could hit one of their group. Thirdly, in spite of his traveler's cloak he was soaked [i]to the bone[/i] by the explosion of water that resulted from the fountain's demise. Irenaeus despised being soaked. Fourthly, and worst of all, he felt that necromantic aura wash over him like a tidal wave of filth mixed with bad memories. Blood mixed freely with the water coating his face and his stomach began a fierce battle with his willpower to empty itself over the ground.

He would be damned if he wasted the [i]Fantasia di Maiale[/i] he'd actually managed to drink that day though, and fought back the urge to vomit. Instead he tried to get his bearing on exactly what the hell was happening. An explosion, screaming, the beating of wings, a squish, a whisper, and now footsteps with a gait that spoke of something that wasn't a corpse. Then a voice spoke which sparked more pleasant memories in his mind, a small compensation for what he had just experienced. Arielle had always spoken in a similar manner, he'd wager a hundred gold disks that they were from the same area.

"[color=f08080]I uh… Dealt with the undead.[/color]"

Fifthly, he was forced to experience all of the above and didn't even have a chance to work out the itch in his sword hand and earn some compensation. With a sigh, he sheathed his sword and let the rock drop from his hand, flexing his fingers to try to work some feeling back into them.  It was the sort of bad day that only occurred once in a century, maybe two. One that he would try, and fail, to forget for many decades to come. Worryingly, there was still plenty of time left for even more to go wrong.

Once tingles of pain began to answer his flexing, he ran a hand through his hair and scratched behind his ears, wondering what he should say in the face of the insanity he just experienced. There were plenty of questions which the ability to see would have easily answered for him, but people had a habit of talking and he was sure he would find out before long. Instead, turned to the woman who approached them and offered a small smile.

"[color=00ffbb]Thank you for saving me the trouble of having to fight with the abominations.[/color]"

He began in simple sincerity, without a trace of bravado in his voice, before tugging on his cloak and adding:

"[color=00ffbb]I suppose I'll forgive you for the soaking wet entrance in exchange.[/color]"

It was the sort of casual and self confident talk that a life of surviving danger instilled in a person. Still, in spite of the humor he was far from relaxed. His sword hand once more rested on Arielle as the ringing is his ears began to subside. His attention was almost entirely focused on the new hole in the ground, searching with his ears for any sound of movement. The woman [i]claimed[/i] the undead were taken care of, but it would be a careless mistake to drop his guard because of that. Almost as an afterthought he turned his head to the rest of the group and added in:

"[color=00ffbb]Are any of you hurt?[/color]"