With every ebb, the statues' glow seems to urge Lans' fury to rise, tugging at his chest, drawing out occasional grunts. He keeps his head down and closes his eyes to avoid any provocation. His temper has gotten worse of late and he wonders if being free of the dungeon will help in this regard?

He glances around. He's seen his peers before as they were brought into the dungeon. "Strange," he muses, "We were all accosted at the same time and appear to manifest the same rare condition." But his imagination suddenly goes wild and his chest heaves for an instant before closing his eyes.

No good. His temper is rising. His eyes force open, as if to release the pressure building. He starts breathing harder, as if the increased breaths will help his efforts to subdue the rising tide. His hands ball up into fists. His vision starts going into a distance.

And then it all stopped. 

Lans, relieved and surprised, focuses his vision to see what changed him so quickly. He just sees his comrades and his mind races... were they truly chosen? Did curses relieve each other somehow? He begins to have hope again... something he did not think he would feel in a long time. Perhaps there is a way out of this spiral into purgatory? And although he never really truly believed like the devout shamans did, Lans finds that his faith is suddenly brimming and overflowing. 

However, he had no words for the Council. His upbringing taught him not to speak during such times. It was unbecoming.