[center][h2][b][color=#d31c0a]Deo’Irah[/color][/b][/h2][/center]

Deo’Irah’s eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of witch-hunters, her otherwise serene face tensing in some micro-display of… something. Contempt. Weaponised ignorance, fueled by a zealotry matched only by those followers of Korval Irah paid particular attention and obeisance to–and though the expression lasted only a fraction of a second, Irah’s thoughts and feelings were of course open to Kinder: there was no fear of their abilities or their persecution, only a tense knot of worrying how much energy they’d have to expend that could otherwise be used productively. She hoped only that they’d let words solve their differences, rather than force her to… well. She did not let her mind drift precisely to the consequences, hoping that forbearance would help her channel the mien of mercy she’d require to ameliorate this particular situation most effectively. She internally mused for a moment how much more exciting this little visit to Borstown was becoming than she’d intended–she even considered for a second that the Lady Bor might have concocted this adventure as a last try to find worthy heirs of her legacy, but quickly dismissed the thought: it seemed both impractical and callous, neither of which she read in the diminutive lady of the house. 

[b][color=#d31c0a]”Thank you for the answers, Lady Bor. We will do what we can to save your guests.”[/color][/b] Irah replied, her tone even and measured. She took her left palm and extended it out towards Lady Bor, held it for a half-second, and placed it upon her heart gently as she turned to walk up the path towards the manor. She studied Lhirin, glad he’d finally realised how [i]rude[/i] he’d been without meaning to and at least attempting to make amends. Still, there was no time–before the others walked up, she leaned in to whisper to him in Gazzerashei:

[i][b][color=#d31c0a]”Witch-hunters–they will target me over even the summoner, as soon as they realise I am currently hosting an angel. Never mind my other forbidden talents–be sharp. We mustn’t kill them, but nor can we brook their interference. I will… explain to the human knight–he reminds me of you. Not telling you the truth ends poorly.”[/color][/b][/i] she spoke, her words somewhat hurried given that all were going to begin making their way into the manor soon. As the various tributaries once again converged into a great river Irah made sure once again to fall by the side of Sir Yanin Glade, to continue their conversation from earlier–and she prompted him to lean down a little and listen to her. 

[b][color=#d31c0a]”... I sense that you appreciate directness, Yanin, so I will be direct.This is, indeed, not my first time…”[/color][/b] she began, her tone candid but playful, and a surprisingly mirthful smirk upon her face, [b][color=#d31c0a]”... the witch-hunters are going to be problematic. You can expect them not to be friendly to us–we should deal with them accordingly.”[/color][/b] she finished, though her tone stiffened towards the end and the congeniality seemed to cool a little as she focused up and walked forwards, striding confidently up the stone steps towards the doors within–she breathed in steadily through her nose and returned to a position of familiar aloofness, suddenly quite uncertain about her snap judgement of Sir Yanin and the confidence she’d placed in him with her allusion. She only hoped it would buy them enough time–she could explain things in more detail later, the lens of gratitude their inevitable success would later provide affording her a much more agreeable environment with which to provide answers. Truthfully, she would not lose much even if he reacted poorly–nothing short of mindless aggression he had thus far not displayed would be a problem she could not simply deal with later.

Irah permitted herself a little smirk at Jordan’s comment, quite amusing given the situation she now found herself in, though she imagined that he’d heard her too and might perhaps be rethinking the statement. She did not permit herself to look at him to determine his reaction, however, as the elder Nightwalker withdrew his blade. The world around Irah seemed to pale in comparison, suddenly, as from a perfectly mundane scabbard, a perfectly mundane grip drew forth something decidedly extraordinary. Irah felt her heart quicken for a moment and a short gasp escaped her lips involuntarily. [abbr=literally “I see the Light”, equivalent to “Oh my god.”][b][color=#d31c0a]”Jehla vrehiel…”[/color][/b][/abbr]

[i]Sartal[/i]. She’d always wondered why the [abbr=Sartal smith]Nabathsetwehl'amet'sartal[/abbr] never bought any inventory from them, even though she’d offered to sell to them at very reasonable rates. It was one of the great mysteries of her people, and something she’d idly let mull about in her thoughts for a long time now–something she’d not gotten any closer to a real answer on. She struggled for a second to regain her previous decorum as she stared at it intensely, her eyes taking on something of the feral quality that was normally only observed in Lhirin. The thoughts consumed her for a second more than she’d have liked before she gained some measure of control over herself and managed to speak again of her own volition, eyes blinking as though she’d just stared into the sun itself for a moment. It was a droplet of water weeping down and landing in her still-held hand that broke her from her reverie, and just as quickly as her eye refocused they became trained on Freagon.

[b][color=#d31c0a]”I would like to hear the story of that blade, when the day is won.”[/color][/b] she spoke to Freagon in Fermian, assuming that he could understand the language if he had a blade made of sartal. A fresh wave of nausea made her stop for a moment, and she made a gentle movement with her finger to prompt a little stream of water to make its way to her mouth so she could sup from it. She cleared her throat for a second and composed herself, feeling unusually unsteady in that very heady way as she fought to unify her errant and fraying thoughts. 

She would wait a moment for everyone to catch up (though she of course kept an eye out for Jaelnec, who she expected might attend her as she had looked somewhat unwell for a second) and focused on breathing, letting herself settle into a gentle rhythm of breath. She realigned her senses with the world, feeling the flow of her magical energy and the way that it clashed against the divine energy of Kinder residing within her, and focused on her surroundings more intently. She would need to be keenly aware of her surroundings given Lady Bor and Kinder’s warnings–and as she extended her awareness outwards, she became increasingly aware of… she was not quite sure. It felt so odd–the streams of magic that she extended outwards to the water above her in order to manipulate it… She turned her head upwards to look, the water’s otherwise perfectly smooth form beginning to drip in places, the halo seeming almost to melt beneath the gaze of some unseen sun.

She willed even more of the energy out than before for a brief second, feeling the further outpouring buoy her control of the mass of water above her. She stepped back for a moment, retreating to the very entrance of the armoury, and willed around half of the water that she’d been using down, her hand clenching slightly as she ceased providing the magical energy to manipulate it and set it down by the garden. She also extended her awareness out towards the assembled multitude of individuals that appeared to be answering adventure’s call–she could feel Lhirin even now, like the charge in the air before a storm. Bristling and ready. The others… she didn’t think it was coming from them, but in order to know that, she’d have to know more than she presently knew: which was nothing.

[b][color=#d31c0a]”... there are, I think, 12 angels inside–one of them far more powerful than the others. There’s also something happening to my magic…”[/color][/b] she began, looking towards Lhirin (no doubtedly having experienced the same thing as her) for an explanation when none came to her.

When the next set of doors were opened and the group advanced into the hall, Irah’s attention snapped immediately towards the wounded man and his cries for help–and then to the wraith that had (quite rudely) animated some of Lady Bor’s furniture. Her first thought was to what [i]type[/i] of angel this might be, and which God it would belong to: if she was lucky, it might be the sort of spirit she may be able to talk down… If she was even luckier, it might be one that could provide her with useful information. Still, more likely than that was that it’d get beaten to a pulp before she had to expend any of her limited (and suddenly increasingly taxed) magical energy. Her eyes flashed immediately to Madara, too, and she nodded in the direction of the wounded man–though she didn’t explicitly speak in the moment, her body language and gesticulations were such that it would be obvious of her intention: they’d best move together, seeing as their skills would be needed together.