[h3]Jaelnec, Freagon, Irah, Lhirin, Nabi, Yanin, Jordan and Madara, Bor Manor, Borstown[/h3]
The twenty remaining iron needles pierced the rug with ease, but while Lhirin would feel its death-grip on him loosen to the point where it no longer threatened to crush him, it did not seem as though it was enough to dissuade it from keeping him in place and blinded. The cloth writhed and twisted around him, rubbing the somewhat coarse woven fabric against him. The thick cloth even muffled sound from outside it quite significantly; while it was no longer immediately dangerous on its own, this rug-wraith was quite well-suited for immobilization and sensory deprivation.

It was Jordan, it turned out, who claimed the final blow to the greatly weakened water-wraith with a decisive downward strike of his truncheon. While water had definite advantages for a creature such as this in its malleability and indestructibility in terms of normal threats, a loose medium such as water was also incredibly easy to lose control over as their magic was disrupted, making them easy to destroy.
The creature stared at Jordan as he approached with glowing orange-yellow eyes from within the liquid and made a weak attempt at evading his attack, but it was too difficult to move with the iron truncheon still inside it. The bludgeon hit with a splash and the wraith burst like a bubble, spilling the water that had made its makeshift vessel over even more of the floor as its spirit lost its tether to Reniam and was forcefully returned to whichever divine realm it had come from.

Yanin looked at the hall intently, but the room was surprisingly bare for such a large open area. The only things he could see present there that had not already proven to be a wraith was the chandelier above and the large painting in the far back.

Jaelnec had been waiting nervously beside his master and Irah, currently waiting for orders or for circumstances to force him to act as he had been instructed, but Freagon seemed content to simply watch the others fighting the wraiths for the time being. Though Jaelnec had gotten better at catching the subtle signs of the knight's moods over the one-and-a-half decade they had spent together, even he had very little idea what was actually going on in the older nightwalker's mind. All he really knew was that Freagon was staring very intensely at the scene before them, sword in hand and ready to act, yet seemingly waiting for... something?
When Madara entered the armory, approached them and addressed them with a brief bit of information, it was only the younger nightwalker that actually turned to look at her. Freagon kept his single eye firmly fixed on the door to the hall and the events playing out over there.
Even so it was still Freagon who responded first: “Thanks,” he simply told her, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth as Jordan crushed the water-wraith in the doorway. Then his eye abruptly widened, his body tensed for a split-second, and out of nowhere he dashed toward the door with a speed that would have been impressive for a person in regular clothing, but was made all the more so by the fact that he was moving that fast in full combat gear.

Freagon sprinted straight past Yanin and Jordan and entered the hall in a heartbeat, his sword held in one hand out to the side as he moved to pass the trapped Lhirin on his right. There was a flash of metal, his sword moving with blinding speed to his left as he drew its eternally razor-sharp edge nimbly and precisely to carve through the rug at about shoulder-level of the captured deigan, cutting all the way through without the sword as much as touching the person inside.

Lhirin would suddenly feel the entire right side of the rug go limp and light flowing into the darkness as a slit opened up over there. The grip of the rug seemed to loosen even more, almost to the point of falling off on its own. It would not be difficult to free himself anymore.

But Freagon kept moving without pause or hesitation, stepping past Lhirin's form and toward the approaching warrior just as this strange iron-clad man, his expression twisting into a grimace of annoyance, raised his silver-sword to strike. He was slow and clumsy; there was another flash of metal as Roct darted from Freagon's left side and upward, clashing with the other's blade hard enough to knock the sword out of his hand, sending it clattering loudly across the floor.
Continuing to move with dexterity and alacrity, Freagon's right hand and sword moved down behind the witch-hunter's shield, only for him to tear it off the man's broken arm and fling it, too, to the floor. The knight's left hand darted for the stranger's right arm and seized his wrist, holding him in place.
He hesitated for a second, staring into the man's face, meeting the witch-hunter's expression of rage with one of intense scrutiny.
Then he loudly and clearly shouted just one single word: “Ghoul!”