Gillian held his glare until Sir Garret placed himself between him and the undead knight. As the barbarian talked to the undead, his glare turned on the barbarian, still hot with rage before cooling slightly. It made sense, after all. Gillian had no rank and over step his bounds, so of course HE’D be the one to be pushed out, if only to preserve what little social graces remained. He turned on the trio, fury still burning in him. 

Were he speaking truthfully, he’d have loved for the exchange to come to blows. His reputation would have been destroyed, but he had far less standing to lose than that arrogant red eyed chibi. And atleast then he’d have had the pleasure of getting a few good licks in on the conceited knight. “Thinking out of their rank..” He grumbles, heading to a small bar, taking up a heavy drink. “Brat. Were the saint herself still with us, I’d pray she’d have to good sense to put you to the sword for such casual disregard for your comrade’s lives.” He grumbles, ignoring the stares (some of annoyance, some surprisingly in admiration.) 

As he drank he’d realized he’d have to apologize to the captain, an act he’d not look forward to. Tyaethe’s flippancy aside, he’d given his word to attempt to behave.  [i]”That is decidedly a failure…”[/i] he thinks, throwing another swig back, counting the moments before he’d excuse himself for the evening. Course, if her undead groupie was any indication, the captain would be equally livid that he’d not taken to lying for her the sake of her valor. He rolls his eyes, regretting the evaluation he’d given Klien and then the Princess before turning away from the bar and heading back towards the group. He should have never taken on Klien’s off-
“ASSASSIN! Iron Roses, to arms! Stop her!” He hears shouted above the din of the crowd. The world around him seems to explode, nobles panicking and rushing past Gillian like a stampede. Furniture and nobles alike toppled in the chaos, and Gillian only barely managed to see a few knights charging after what seemed to be a child. He draws his sword, anger now forgotten and replaced with worry. Wolves rarely hunted alone, same went for the kind of low life who’d take assassination as a profession. He pushes his way through the crowd back towards Fanlily and company. He looks visibly relieved as he spots the young captain, unharmed, hovering dutifully by the princess. 

He rushes to the side of the young hundi Ian, something strange nagging at the back of his mind. The timing of the attack was…uncomfortably perfect. Their expedition had not been out of the capital for long, and they’d only returned a day ago. But this was no rush job, the stealth of it all was too perfect to be done on short notice. He continues to scan the crowd, the reek of a set up hanging in the air. “Your highness…” He begins only just audible above the crowd, “You mentioned that you were the one brought the attacks by the bandit king to the attention of your father. From whom did you learn that from?” He asks, praying that it was simply paranoia on his part. But something stank in the state of Thaln,...well, more so than usual.