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When her anger finally subsided, Clarissa became uneasy, and then very focused—Jorah’d felt her get that way before, and knew from experience that she must have been praying. She always felt so stable when she got that way, like a stout building standing against a storm;  though her initial fiery determination was what had jolted Jorah out of his frightened reverie, that serene stillness of hers was what he clung to in the carriage, steeping himself in her pious calm as they rocked and bumped their way to battle. He could never be sure if it was the coming trial that had him taking things so [i]seriously[/i] or if it was Clarissa’s influence sharpening his mind, but it didn’t matter much to him; if he stopped concentrating on her aura, the soup of mixed emotions coming from the rest of the carriage’s occupants would probably have him clawing at the doors for escape. 

Professor Michail’s orders echoed in his ears from far away; he vaguely registered that he’d be taking the center position, but didn’t pay too much mind to where anyone else was going. Except Clarissa, of course. She was in the middle with him, and he breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t be far if his resolve started to buckle in the chaos. 

Jorah was jolted from his secondhand meditation when the carriage finally lurched to a halt, and as he saw Clarissa move to leave the carriage, an unfamiliar urgency took hold of him. Without thinking, he snatched her hand before she could get out, gripping it firmly. Making sure she met his gaze, his wine-coloured eyes bored into her green ones, expression uncharacteristically serious. [color=FFAB66]“Don't stray too far from me, okay?”[/color]

[color=FF650E]“I wouldn’t dream of it, Jorah.”[/color] She promised, laying her hand over his and squeezing briefly, much to Jorah’s relief. [color=FF650E]“And if all this gets to be too much, tell me. Don’t try to play the hero.”[/color]

Ha. he almost could have laughed at the thought if a storm of concerns hadn’t clouded his mind, though the tiniest of smirks did find its way to his lips. [color=FFAB66]“[i]Hero[/i], wouldn't Duke Riegan love that,”[/color] he answered quietly, a hint of bitter sarcasm in his voice. He did grin, though; somehow Clarissa’s seriousness always had a way of melting away his own, as if she took on the burden of responsibility for the both of them. 

[color=FFAB66]“Nah, dinners with Duke Edmund will get mighty awkward if he hears I let his daughter get shot,”[/color] he added wryly, finally releasing her.

He got out not far behind her, only to be nearly knocked off his feet by the scene outside the carriage. The smoke, fire, fleeing villagers and raiders—the visual spectacle of destruction was all secondary to the [i]noise[/i], a discordant chorus of fear, bloodlust, panic and anger that only Jorah could hear. If a usual gathering of people’s emotions was like voices in a crowd, then this was an outright riot, a desperate scramble of emotional screams and cries and crazy shrieking, friend indistinguishable from foe. He didn’t know which feelings were villagers’ or raiders’; even Imogen’s aura, typically a trumpet among whispers, was drowned in the mire. Jorah had never in his life been so overwhelmed; he would have cursed his Crest had he the breath, but his lungs were frozen, his feet bolted to the ground.

A familiar voice crying out from close behind him was the slap in the face Jorah needed to move again, and Auberon’s instructions seemed to hit him on a delay, fully snapping him out of his torpor. Only then did he remember the bow in his hands, clutched to his chest in a white-knuckled grip, and Auberon’s suggestion fully sank in: get on top of the carriage, good idea. He might have thought of it himself if he’d been conscious. One of his ears rang as the nearby clash of steel shot through him, but above it he could hear Clarissa, speaking in the language of scriptures and invoking the Goddess to turn the bandits away from their sin. 

Jorah took a breath, the last vapours clearing from his clouded mind. Latching on to Clarissa’s aura, he allowed her righteous indignation to flow through him, urging his steps as he climbed deftly on top of the carriage in record time. She wanted the bandits to repent and beg for mercy, but it was the first part of her speech that spoke to him more; judgement and reckoning, those were the ideas that would get him through this without buckling at the knees. 

Working on touch alone, he pulled an arrow from the quiver at his hip and nocked it, scanning the village around them for targets. The hunter in him, honed well from countless hunts for deer and boar and bear over the years, was already beginning to surface, and as long as he kept Clarissa’s aura in mind, the chaos began to fade, giving way to wind direction and obstacles and angles. Unlike a hunt, however, there was movement everywhere, villagers fleeing and raiders looting and burning. Unlike a hunt, what concerned him most now were the targets that would likely be still: archers. 

Movement from the corner of his eye caught Jorah’s attention, and without waiting to register what it was, he threw his legs out from under him, landing prone on the roof of the carriage; a good choice, in retrospect, as he heard the whistle of an arrow flying over him. Rising to one knee, his fingers found his bowstring again, but hesitated. 

[color=FFAB66][i]One, two—[/i][/color]

Then, with unpredictable speed, Jorah whirled to the left, drawing and shooting in one smooth motion. His two seconds of hesitation gave the archer enough time to think himself safe and take aim once more, but not enough to draw; by the distant [i]thump[/i] and the body crumpled over the short wall of a nearby well, Jorah reckoned he’d made the right call. 

[color=FFAB66]“Not the most cover up here, though…”[/color] he murmured to himself, staying on one knee and crouching low to the roof of the carriage. He was a prime target for archers up here, but it couldn’t be helped; with all the chaos and all the damn tall students around him, he’d be useless spotting from the ground. 

A guttural cry from the back right had him whirling again, met with the sight of Imogen and Kevin covered in blood, with two more (angry) raiders looking on. The one who screamed seemed to hesitate, face twisted with anger and anguish alike, before charging; Jorah dispatched him with an arrow to the chest, and directed another at the ground before the other raider’s feet as a warning not to make the same mistake. 

[color=FFAB66]“Clarissa! Check on the back line!”[/color] Jorah shouted, unsure from this distance whether either Imogen or Keenan was hurt. 

[color=FFAB66]“Kayden! Maybe watch what your line-mates are doing?”[/color] He called pointedly, catching the Prince standing proudly over his single assailant with his back to his fellows as Jorah swept the back for archers. [color=FFAB66]“And Imogen!”[/color] he added sharply, making sure she saw him, [color=FFAB66]“Stop… clumping!”[/color]

Honestly, could these guys not coordinate themselves? Jorah was no military mind, but he knew clumping up and not watching your fellow hunters during a boar hunt was a good way to get three people gored at once, and he had other things to pay attention to. [color=FFAB66]“Come on guys, I can’t watch for archers [i]and[/i] your backs at the same time!”[/color] 

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