[h3]The Duchy of Zerul, by a road in southwest[/h3]
[IMG]http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u79/SharpshooterJack/markerJaelnec_zps53b7aa37.png[/IMG]
Smiling to himself despite feeling an odd knot in his heart at the sight of Thaler’s gentle gesture towards their sleeping leader, Jaelnec remained standing even as the situation seemed calm and ideal for rest. He needed rest, too - though his mind and soul were relatively intact, he still felt the ache left behind after he had strained himself with the slayer-stance - but somehow he felt as though he could not allow himself to relax. Aemoten was asleep, Thaler seemed so much more defenseless than when they had met her, Etakar was wounded and Olan had quite clearly lowered his guard completely in the face of overwhelming curiosity. With their group in its currently diminished state and with strange - if hospitable-seeming - people in their presence, he felt as though he was their main protector and their only effective bulwark against the dangers of the planes. So he stood, his stance calm and neutral, his arms hanging down his sides, but making sure that his cloak never got in the way of him being able to swiftly draw his sword.
When he had been with Freagon, one of his old master’s hardest, most merciless lessons had been that of vigilance. He would frequently remind the younger Nightwalker of the dangers that could potentially hide behind every corner, in every ditch, or indeed anywhere that one could not see, and that one had to be constantly ready to respond to the appearance of an enemy at a second’s notice. They would travel the roads of Rodoria and Wegam Fermos for days and weeks at times, undertaking long journeys during which nothing happened at all, yet Freagon would notice every time Jaelnec lowered his guard and brutally scold him. Thinking back, the squire realized that Freagon himself had to have possessed an incredible awareness of his surroundings to unfailingly notice whenever his apprentice had had a lapse of attention, yet at the same time had never failed to recognize and respond to a threat himself.
[I]I need to stop comparing myself to Freagon, and aspiring to be like him,[/I] he thought, frowning at the sense of inadequacy that overcame him. [I]He was extraordinary in almost every way, except his lack of people-skills. I can never hope to compare to him. He is an ideal to strive for, nothing more. Invincible to the very end.
And yet he died.[/I]

He tore his eyes from the Daywalker and the human, focusing on feeling happy that the two of them seemed okay with one another rather than bitter that their immortal leader was the one receiving the affections of an attractive woman such as Thaler. He had to remind himself of his decision to let go and to want the best for the two of them; Aemoten loved her, after all.
Instead he turned his attention to Domhnall, listening to the foreigner’s tale, and finding that he had to fight down a familiar sensation within himself, one he recognized only too well from back in Borstown, and one he thought himself much too disillusioned to indulge in again. But still, that these people and the black-furred creature over there had met just recently, by chance, and then shortly afterwards encountered their group, also by chance? That Iridiel was a Favored One capable of healing, showing up just as Aemoten was reaching the limit of how much he could do to restore their group after their unfortunate encounters? That Domhnall seemed so likeable, and described the other creature - Claw - as ‘the honorable sort’. A group of three, capable of slaying a lohk with no casualties.
The hairs were standing on his arms at the sense of destiny at work, and he swallowed a lump in his throat as he struggled not to embrace the naïve thought so readily. He felt the certainty the Withering would be ended soon growing within himself, and had to remind himself that there were still trials ahead before such a grand deed could be accomplished. But they had already faced the worst, had they not? By the planes, they had already had to face a [I]god[/I]! How much greater could their trials get?

“How nice!” Olan replied to Domhnall’s explanation, his excitement not seeming to falter the least in the face of the randomness of their encounter, or the relation between the two whatever-they-were and Claw. “I’m a traveler, too, you know. An explorer, even. I really wouldn’t recommend going any further east, though; it gets really uncomfortable over there, you know.”
Then he turned to look at Iridiel at her perch, smiling widely at her, and did a little bow as well... while speaking in a language Jaelnec was entirely unfamiliar with. He had no way of knowing this, but Olan was speaking the Éireannach language, though with Rodorian grammar, similar to how he had earlier spoken to Etakar in Aemoten’s native tongue. It was surprising, to say the least, and just another piece of evidence of how strange a person Olan really was.
“[I]Greetings, Favored of Sulis. I am at your service.[/I]”