Does he miss the battle? Of course. It's in his blood, in the blood of those around him, it calls and threatens and whines, but it never begs because that's not what war is about. He begs. That's how he knows that for the most part, it has left him to slink away into some dark corner where it snaps and growls, trying to intimidate or lure him back with it's siren sweet voice, but he puts it aside for the gentler call of the children as they bombard him, as children do, with question after question, interrupting the story ever so often, earning his laughter, "Not so loud now, we still have people coming to pray. Actually, I shouldn't even be telling you a story before your daily prayers." 

 "Noooo...." The loud whines of impatient young ones filled the great hall, before he quieted them down. Having to stifle his own quiet laughter from disturbing the church goers. Their numbers usually increased after a Siren, the many people coming to thank The Lord that they hadn't been affected by the battle and pray for further protection and secretly, under their breaths, ask for the impossible end to this. He could get so philosophical about it and he had a thousand times over before that it wasn't even fun to try anymore, so he turned his attention back to his less priestly duties.

 "Alright, alright, calm down." He murmured, continuing the story to calm them down, trying to be clever with the questions that were shot at him. Having to stop and think every now and then, having to come up with something to satisfy the children's curiosity. Eventually a merchant came in, interrupting their little story session. Sending the children off, he stood and straightened his clothing, heading straight for the man. 

 It was much harder to tell the wealthy apart from the middle class and poor nowadays, mostly because everyone was considered middle class at this point, but the people who liked to think themselves higher often had that sort of stance. They held their head higher and puffed out their chests more, kept their feet together and always had their hands out. To Xephos, they were silly signs, false shows of strength, like a venom-less cobra puffing up it's hood or a black and yellow beetle. They always seemed so dangerous when they were so easily crushable, crunching nicely under one's foot as if they were made to be stomped on.

 "Father, I was told that you were accepting travelers for the night?"
 "That is correct, we welcome any weary folk wishing to stay the night as long as they do not mind staying for a small fee."
 "I am willing to give but some food for a night's stay, we do not wish to venture out into battle scarred ground."
 "That is a generous offer, but that is a trade product. Merely, we ask that you lend a little labour into helping us distribute our rations, we have yet to properly achieve an efficient distribution line, you see." 
 "Very well, Father. If [i]that[/i] is all you require for a night's rest." 

The man bowed to him or rather stooped down slightly as if trying to mimic a bow, but failing spectacularly at doing so. He nodded and sent the man off anyway, turning to find eight pairs of eyes staring up at him expectantly. Their little feet tapping impatiently, fidgeting where they stood while they tried to remain quiet waiting for him to finish up and get back to the story. He supposed that he should reward them for their obedience. Much to their misfortune, someone else rushed up, calling for the priest's attention.

 "Father," An inquisitive pig tailed girl, nearly a young maiden at this point, called him. Earning another soft groan from the children as they dispersed, intuitively knowing they weren't going to get their story time any time soon, "There is a young man standing by the door, I believe he wishes to talk to you. He has been looking in quite a while." 
 
 Glancing at the doors, he caught him. The young man, goggles obscuring part of his face, scrutinizing the interior of the great hall as if looking for some flaw in the marble, of which there were many. His head lifted too high to be bowed down in prayer and too low to be gazing up at the mosaic windows; the dying light of the sun filtering in to play across the colored glass depicting the Virgin Marry clasping a rosary, dousing the church in a spectrum of light. If he wasn't staring up there, then he didn't know why the boy was there. 

 "Perhaps he is seeking a night's rest, you may invite him in if you wish. They all are hesitant at times to seek help from the Lord's house." He waved her off to help the boy, watching her skip over the same way she would skip when she was younger. Soon, he believed, he should urge her to mingle with the townsfolk and build herself a proper home within the town. As much as he loved having innocent smiling faces around to brighten the area, he felt guilty having them so attached to him to play with the other children of the town. Perhaps he sheltered them too much...his thoughts dancing around his mind, he returned to helping unpack the boxes.
-------
 "Excuse me, Sir, but are you here to spend the night?"