[color=#007985][b][h2]Sir Jerel Ban[/h2][/b][/color]
At last, they were back. 

The familiar low din of Candaeln bounced about the hard surfaces with weird acoustics that made it seem all the more cavernous and empty in light of ringing in Jerel’s ears, which expected something more. He hadn’t realised how loud the streets had been, until they were locked away behind walls and closed doors. All those faces twisted by the current of their collective emotions; adulating and wide, like a polished lake reflecting the heavens - the Knights filled them with hope, their captain most of all; then the ripple of disquiet that sunk smiles here and there for only an instant, when they saw Jerel’s wound and realised even Legends could bleed (he did not let his chin drop until he was inside Candaeln); and then the anger, the anger at the prisoners. It wasn’t blatant and bestial, but insidious, like spiderweb cracks on thin ice hiding waters deep and dark beneath. In those black mirrors, Jerel swore he could see their thoughts, entertaining fantasies - their own perversions of justice and revenge and glory, as if they never would have been swayed if their lives were at stake. As if they weren't thinking the very thoughts that shone in their eyes. 

Ter was outside in some private perch, but Jerel could sense him, and took comfort that his bird had not fallen afoul of any moral sundries. Just tired and relieved. Jerel suspected his bird would find sleep far easier than him. 

The swords that adorned the room only seemed to taunt him. All these greats in their order and he had been injured by a desperate man likely no more trained than any farmer. And he had killed them too, and that thought more than any other kept coming back; he had killed them and felt nothing and yet now he wanted to throw-up and remove the weight that seemed to be crushing his chest. 

Books had softened him. That must be it, he thought as he trudged towards the healer’s to check his wound for bad blood or infection. Too many hours spent reading and not enough training. 

But that wasn’t it. What it ultimately came down to was a shift in his view of the world, and perhaps the histories and accounts in the library were responsible for that. Killing, even for the kingdom and Order to which he was Oath-sworn, filled him with remorse. It shouldn’t; he should have every confidence what he was doing was the right thing. Should.

Am I fit to be a knight? I feel I am just some dreadful imposter. 

Surely this was no new conflict, and it was likely just the events catching up with him, compounding, or a malaise introduced by his wound. And yet, he felt that he had a decision to make. It’s just, he couldn’t decide if that was - 

"[color=yellow]Good news or bad news?[/color]" ([@PaulHaynek])

Jerel stopped at the archway, leaning with one hand upon the wall. He turned to look at Jarde, at the courier. It could have been destiny, or confluence, or coincidence. Perhaps they were all the same. 

Still, Jerel waited to hear the answer.