The mantle of healer was not something the ferine paladin took lightly. It was a gift, a grant of power from the very soul of him, from a well that overflowed with life. His hands had always been tools of restoration, even in youth when he did not know himself, but now? Now they were conduits of something far more powerful than the mere man. The silver blessing that had been laid upon him and flowed in every vein of his being was a channel for that, so offering this gift, this imparting of life to the weary, was not done thoughtlessly. Rather the man struggled greatly with the prospect.

Something in his heart and soul alike spoke to him that this was to be done. That the broken bodies and wavering flames of spirit needed to be stoked by his hand, the hand of an outsider, a beast. In the resentment he held for the way these people viewed his world he had to come to understand there were only so many ways to show them that it was not truly their enemy. Nature, supernature as well, could be just as benevolent as it was horrible and ferocious. But this came at the cost of conflicting with years of life that told him these people would just as quickly eschew all he ever did, that they would forget his gifts and aid in their time of desperation... or would they? These people likely had never endured anything on the scope or scale of a dragon laying siege to their quiet little town, they had no experience with fiends like the small scaled ones or the mind-bound cultists, and they certainly had no real knowing of just what he was.

This needed to be the way, it [i]had[/i] to be the way, no matter if he desired to be a part of it or not and Brannor? Brannor desired none of it although he obeyed his instinct. He shrugged his gauntlets and wedged the plated, leather things between the bands of his leather belts and buckles and walked the dim halls in the night. Each step carried with him a ghostly, predatory presence, one that the dead or dying or now just lame perhaps at first feared, especially as the hooded figure drew near, lit only by the odd candle or torch. That same font which he drew himself up from, that other side of him, now guided the surreal and wispy white-green tendrils that reached from his hand on to their flesh. When the channel was broken, like a mist dispelled by daylight, it faded away into nothing and the wild-sworn soul offered nothing more than a distant smile.

He spoke little, allowing the lingering gold of his easing glare to say all that there was and when he finished his last round for the night, turning to depart, all he could hope was that their initial fear and surprise had faded away. Many had been thankful, some several times over, but the man seemed elsewhere; never once was it a deed done for any reason but that he was to. He was distant, a soul outside body, driving the physical to act in the moment of divine trance. A strange thing for a stranger.

Through the halls again, much later on only with his deeds done, did the ranger-knight drift until he again found himself in the familiar lair he had taken up when he first came to the town some nights ago in the belly of the keep. Tucked away as it was, Brannor slunk down to the corner and came to rest, pawing at the gem he carried with him. Touched by the moon's graces as he, it shimmered in the dark with an equally weak and distinctive silver light. From there, trinket in hand, arms soon laid to rest beside him did the tiger among men enter the dreamlit temple of sleep.

[@Hekazu][@Gordian Nought][@Ryonara][@Lucius Cypher][@Norschtalen]