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[h3]The Duchy of Zerul, by a road in southwest[/h3]
Whatever other flaws Angora might have, Jaelnec mused to himself, at least she seemed determined to be honest with them to an almost uncomfortable extent... much more than Jaelnec would have expected of her, at least, given the things she readily confessed to having done and – for most part – seemed completely unapologetic about. The murders she had committed in order to get the “Black Sword” seemed to be the only crime she displayed any kind of remorse for, despite them being the only crime she was less than entirely responsible for given that the entity that had lived in it was clearly able to manipulate those near it and that the people originally in possession of the sword had also been affected. Truthfully, Jaelnec was liable to forgive those murders on the same grounds that they had judged her as not being responsible the murders she had committed while possessed...
What made the squire clench his jaw and feel a growing sense of worry for this woman before him was not her deeds while under the influence of the entity of the sword, but her past before then. How was cutting people’s throats in their sleep any worse than what an assassin normally did, after all, unless she had specifically practiced the trade through painless poison? In fact the only thing she admitted to have done that was not both unethical and illegal was prostitution, which, while not a particularly admired profession, was both legal and an honest way to make a living... although with the other things she had done it would not surprise him if she had robbed her customers and blackmailed them if she could.
And after having demonstrated her apparent complete lack of conscience she turned around and tried to explicitly paint a picture of herself as just a naive girl trying to obtain greatness, although an entirely different kind of greatness than the one Jaelnec wanted for himself. Did she, after naming herself a killer-for-hire and common thug in the service of organized crime, expect them to believe that she had not known what she was doing? She had [I]killed people for money[/I], for Laon’s sake, and not even because she [I]needed[/I] the money, but out of an eternal desire for more.

Now that the aura produced by the entity was no longer as devastating to his senses and thoughts as it had previously been the young Nightwalker was not gripped with bloodthirst anymore and felt no desire to kill Angora, but after her story he had certainly built up enough rage within himself that he wanted to punch some sense into her. There was no way around it; her actions in the past had been pure [I]evil[/I], and the fact that she did not seem to think anything of them besides the fact that it had been against the law spoke of a depth of corruption that was borderline unforgivable. Why would she even speak to him so easily about something like that? Did she presume that he and the others were also exiles, criminals, outcasts and murderers just because Iridiel had turned out to be one, and that they would be somehow sympathetic with her livelihood? He wondered what Aemoten would have done, had he been the one receiving this confession... probably demanded a complete and immediate abandonment of her past ways, he figured, or he would have taken her to the city only to turn her over to the Ducal Guard.
What stopped Jaelnec from yelling into Angora’s face and possibly introduce that very same face to his fist was primarily the girl’s interactions with Iridiel, namely the compassion she had shown for the foreign woman. The sight of Angora putting her arm around Iridiel to comfort her kept rising to the front of Jaelnec’s mind, and part of him – perhaps the part of him that was, despite everything he had been through these past several days, still naive – insisted that this woman could not possibly be an entirely lost cause, that there had to be some good and hope in her yet that was worth nurturing, rather than simply focusing on stomping out the evil that had taken root in her.
Besides, she was – as her occasional uncomfortable shifting and checking on her clothes reminded him – naked under her cloak, and he found it extremely hard to sustain any kind of righteous fury in the face of female nudity. And eighteen years old? By the Spirits, he was even younger than him!

“Autumn, yes,” he told her when she seemed unsure about what time of year it was. “Fourth month of autumn, so it must have been more than six months.” He had sounded somewhat gruff at that point, given that he had still been undecided on what to do or say to her but was already starting to get worked up about her willingness to partake in harmful crime.

Sighing and closing his eyes, Jaelnec took a moment to collect his thoughts before feeling even remotely prepared to face the current situation he found himself in. Oddly, by the time he reopened his eyes he found Olan staring at him, not saying anything but just watching him curiously.
Then he turned his attention to Angora, a grim expression upon his face. “I’m sorry, I only just realized that we haven’t really been officially introduced yet. I am Jaelnec, squire of the Knighthood of the Will. Our leader, Aemoten, calls himself a warrior, but if I’ve understood what he’s told me about his culture right then he’s pretty much what we’d call a knight. The daywalker with us is an apprentice to my order, too.” He neglected to mention that Thaler was also a former infamous thief and menace in Zerul City, but he did not see how it was relevant anymore; she had promised that that time was over for her, and he believed her.
He swallowed, trying to sound as firm as possible without seeming downright threatening to the other. “If you’re going to be traveling with us, you’re going to have to leave your life of crime behind. We don’t do stuff like that.”
He scratched his chin, his gaze moving to her sword. “That sword is obsidite, which means that it was almost certainly made by Klorr... which means it is beyond a masterpiece and must be [I]very[/I] valuable.” He looked at Angora again. “Even ignoring that whoever sent you for the sword could send more, there must be others looking for it. It might be worth considering whether the sword is worth the danger it puts you in – [I]us[/I] in – or whether it would be better to get rid of it.”

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[h3]Duchy of Pelgaid, secluded pond[/h3]
A dangerous intensity narrowed Gerald’s eyes when the witch dared to call him “Remdal” after everything he had told her this evening, and for a second his thoughts turned to murder and went to work fetching the words for a suitably violent spell... until he calmed himself, realizing that Jillian probably just meant it as a jest and did not realize just how infuriating it was for him to be called that. It was probably a play at his own insistence on addressing her by her surname, he figured, with a sprinkle of expressing newfound familiarity with his past.
She preferred that they were open about themselves? Very well, he would oblige, even if she contradicted herself with her reluctance to just come out and [i]ask[/I] him to address her by her given name.
“Glass,” he told her with icy rage in his voice that seemed in stark contrast to the fire in his gaze. “Never Remdal. You mean it well and I’ll let it slip this time since we’re such good friends, but next time you do that you’d better be prepared to defend yourself, because I’m going to kill you.” There was no mirth in his tone, only deadly seriousness and intensity.

He sighed. This had been an exhausting evening for him... delving into his past was not something he enjoyed, and he actually looked even smaller and more feeble than usual from sheer fatigue. “But yes... I suppose it is. Hopefully that’ll be enough to get us through what awaits.”