[h3]Sir Yanin Glade (and Jordan Forthey and Madara)[/h3]

	The male deigan was insistent the riders were not a threat even before they dismounted. Where from that certainty? Even if not conspired, several hostile parties could very well be in one place at the same time. Opportunism. Pick off the stragglers, claim whatever was advantageous, and most people would be none the wiser. 
	[i]Most [/i]people here, at least those who reacted to the summons, were at least somewhat opportunistic. It would have been surprising enough if something like this hadn't already happened before.
	[i]Water. Lightning.[/i] Yanin simply nodded, sharply, still more focused on any motion that could be detected from the manor grounds, even as Lhirinthyl had made it head, and in a personal-space-defying manner that seemed characteristic to him, started questioning the first guy near the gate. One could only assume that much like the dead fellow in the Fadewatcher station, this one was one of Lady Bor's men.  
	A short distance back, there were two more humans - apparently domestic staff rather than fighters - and who was no doubt Lady Bor herself. Contrary to the fears of the watchmen back in the guardhouse, she looked to be doing just fine for herself, getting up there in age or not. 
	He himself was going to let the two other newcomers explain themselves before proceeding, however. The older rider, one-eyed and face more scar than skin, dismounted and took his time replying. The younger guy seemed to be looking from Yanin to his fellow rider - at least judging by the slight back-and forth notching of his head from the two being on opposite sides of one another. Neither of the two had visible sclerae or irides. Nightwalkers, then. 
	[i]“Freagon, of the Knights of the Will,”[/i] the older nightwalker finally said. [i]“The boy is my page. We're here to help.”[/i]
	Yanin's helmet, being a helmet, quite fittingly had no expression to note, even though there was a good two-second beat. So it was [i]that[/i] guy. His claims didn't make sense, but with him displaying equipment that would have made him well set for life if he ever wanted to put down his job, there was hardly any confusing him with any other contenders. The title itself, though? With no one to [i]truly[/i]contest him, the older nightwalker could have simply given it to himself. Not that Yanin couldn't understand the motivation. Titles were [i]useful.[/i]
	"Sir Yanin Glade," he simply stated. "Lieutenant of Fadewatchers." And promptly seemed to lose all interest in the nightwalkers for the time being, physically turning his attention to the manor, and tangentially to two deigan and the penin, instead. 


	"Jordan Forthey, squire of the Glades," Jordan offered next to and behind him, looking from Freagon to the "boy" who had not even been bothered to be named. Looked to be around his age, despite, apparently, only being a page still. And both of them were older than when Sir Yanin had been when knighted, although he was admittedly a bit of a special case. He shrugged. "Also a Fadewatcher, as of two years ago."


	The others were busy requesting the manor inhabitants for more info, albeit in a rather verbose manner to contrast Yanin's own, rather terse manner of requesting information. It was only wonder people weren't more impatient than they appeared. Or perhaps the residents just hid it too well for Yanin to recognize it wt the best of his ability. Most likely the latter. 
	How many there were, who or what they were, what could they do... Probably a bit much to ask for the internal outlay of the building at this stage. They'd have to see as they go. Other questions, the two deigan mostly covered. Wraiths - at least four of them, perhaps uncontrolled, though no apparent magic. Yanin took a closer look at the - apparently steel - spear he was looking, and visibly scoffed. Seven guests, including the Melenian summoner and three overactive vigilantes. 
	"Not the first time?" he said at Irah, in a lowered tone. And, turning his head, mostly at Jordan, though equally loud and clear for anyone else who bothered to listen. "You use iron - the purer the better. Or magic." Much more pragmatic than simply announcing that [i]he[/i] had heard about wraiths. 


	"Is summoning not illegal in Melenia or something?" Jordan asked, brow furrowed. A more socially adept individual might have inferred that is was a mostly rhetorical question rather than one he actually needed an answer to right then an there. Just ... sheer incredulousness at someone being dumb enough to just tell a room full of strangers that you were a summoner in a place were summoning most definitely [i]was[/i] illegal. 


	The dark-skinned individual moved closer, the deep-red eyes looking from one to another as she urged each of them to hurry on before the wraiths could do even more damage. Now that he could see her up close, rather than through the slits of his visor and from more than hundred meters away with both of them running each in their own vaguely converging direction, it was also evident that the ears poking through her hair were long and pointed. Not human, then. Not that it mattered much at this time.
	"Are you a fire elementalist?" he inquired, even as he tilted his head to observe the manor's iron fence. "And you're right. We can talk later. If someone has any iron at hand to spare, speak up. If anyone has [i]not[/i] prepared something that might convince the wraiths to disperse, do so now. Wraiths can look like anything, as far as I know."
	The manor looked still, deceptively peaceful. Door closed. No one close enough to windows to be seen. They'd probably have to breach again. 
	If no one had anything to offer, he began making his way toward the manor, , Jordan following him, wary and always keeping to the side of the door, keeping his attention divided on all of his surroundings with an almost inhuman diligence. As much as he lacked in making sense of the minute - and not so minute - details of humanoid expressions and intonations, he could notice many other details others missed. Especially if [i]anything[/i] moved or made a sound. 


	A figure in dark green lingered behind, unarmored and apparently mostly unarmed - save for a dagger and a set of surgical implements.
	"You're injured," she stated at the large man in brigandine armor as she sashayed closer, low voice quiet. "Is anyone else?" 
	It was a big manor for just a handful of people. She was moderately well-off herself - but she shared a much smaller two-storey building with two other business fronts with their owners' and their families' living quarters on the upper floor.