Irah approached Freagon and Jaelnec somewhat hesitantly, uncertain if her earlier eavesdropping was unwelcome, but with a sense of certainty and purpose beneath it that would brook no ignorance.
"I'd like to examine your soul now, Sir Freagon, if you'd not mind? I wanted to do so more privately because there is another thing that I need to discuss with you." she asked, turning to Freagon briefly as she spoke but otherwise keeping her smile and gaze focused primarily on Jaelnec.

Jaelnec returned her smile, but glanced nervously at his master.
"Sure," Freagon grunted without looking at her or slowing his stride, keeping his eye on the forest ahead. "I already gave you permission."
As first Caleb and then Lhirin had observed earlier, Irah would find Freagon's soul to be profoundly broken in a way she had never felt a soul be before. The currents of energy that were normally continuous, natural and, even in those untrained in magic, exhibited a degree of order... they were all wrong. Currents twisted, broke, doubled back on themselves and tied themselves into knots, and entire parts of his soul seemed like they barely had any connection to the rest of it.
If she had not known that such a thing was impossible, she would have gotten the impression that this was a soul that had gotten torn to pieces and haphazardly put back together.

Irah's expression shifted rapidly through confusion, curiosity, and concern--but all with a slight hint of confirmation, that some deep-seated yearning in her mind was finally fulfilled.
"... Oh my. It should be impossible to cobble together a soul from constituent fragments, but that is precisely what your soul feels like. Some event must have happened to you, something quite momentous--do you have any idea what? Exposure to a tremendous source of magical energy, perhaps, or... a particularly powerful spirit?" she asked, naturally having switched back to Fermian in the midst of her excitement. It would afford them a little more privacy, that was true, but the truth of it was simply that her overexcited mind could not spare the space to translate through two languages... not when she was this close.

Happily switching to Fermian as well – leaving Jaelnec looking confusedly from one to the other, as he did not understand the language – Freagon sighed.
"All of what you mentioned, and more," he told her solemnly. "This is not something I would normally share, but you have been... uniquely forthcoming about your own secrets. So much so it is a wonder to me that you still walk free, unbranded and alive."
Finally he turned his head and looked straight at her. "I died once, and was resurrected by an archangel."

Irah laughed mirthfully in response to Freagon's own surprise, but she shook her head slightly as she spoke: "Resurrected... by an archangel? I had no idea such a thing was possible, though archangels are quite the wonder--there is much and more we do not know about them. I knew I could sense it about you: a great purpose, a confluence of destiny. I have revealed to you more of my secrets in mere moments than I have in a hundred years of life, you must think me unbearably naive, but... Let me share something else that may go some measure towards explaining why." she started, taking a deep breath and letting her face slip into a more somber expression.
"Many years ago, I visited Mount Zerul to train with the Ice Clan--as a water elementalist, there are none better--and had the great fortune of coming across Mitai, the Hermit. I felt... I do not know how to put it into words--a tension, like some ineffable force that surrounded and infused me straining against something like its own. He called it being "fatebound", that those who have the potential to navigate the currents of chance towards a particularly momentous outcome. I felt that same tug when we first met--much lesser than with Mitai, however, it is the first I have felt of it since that time. I... I am certain that you have a great destiny, some task you must accomplish... and I would like to help you do it. I have sought even the barest hint of this feeling again for years, and to have finally found it..." she spoke, unable to stop herself from spewing out the words at a more rapid pace than she normally ever spoke in.

Freagon blinked, then returned his attention to the path ahead of him. "There were a few words there I am not entirely sure about, but I think I got the gist of it. Sounds like nonsense to me. But..." He paused, thinking. When he spoke again, there was a hint of frustration in his tone: "I feel like I recognize the name 'Mitai' from somewhere, but I do not remember."

"You were not resurrected by an archangel for no reason. I seem to bear some sort of affinity for these reasons, and sensed it about you. I don't think my thing is stranger than yours; it should be easy to believe by comparison." Irah laughed in response to Freagon's saying it sounded like nonsense.
"Concentrate on the memory, as best as you can. Do you regularly have feelings like this? It could perhaps be that it is the memory of another fragment of a soul within you, or perhaps your own soul but your connection to it is drowned out by the chaos of the others." Irah said, focusing more intently on reading Freagon's soul--she would try to make sense of the chaotic currents as best as she could. If anyone here had a chance, she figured it would be the necromancer.

"Or it could just be that I'm an old man that doesn't remember every single thing he has experienced," he grumbled, still without looking at her.
Reading his soul, it turned out, was practically impossible. Different parts seemed to flow at different rates, in different directions, in nonsensical patterns... and patterns were exactly what one needed in order to decipher anything about someone by their soul. Everything about Freagon's soul was erratic, shifting this way and that from moment to moment, to the point where even spotting small fragments of patterns would take a lot of observation, if it could even be done at all.
"No, I... I think it..." He suddenly fell silent, and though his expression remained stony, Irah would be able to see his jaw-muscles grow tense. Then he switched back to Rodorian just so he could curse crudely, then went back to Fermian: "He has powerful enemies."

"Ah, it's no use--I would need to observe your soul for weeks to get even a chance at picking out something approaching a pattern. Do you mean Djubei? That would make sense; but everything I know about Djubei suggests it's quite singular--I don't suspect you're referring to it. Caleb mentioned that Roct had a soul in it, too--what do you know of those circumstances? I would be surprised if it was not somehow linked to your... condition." Irah replied, before turning to look at Jaelnec and blinking twice rapidly.
"I'm sorry, Jaelnec, I don't mean to leave you out--it's... a delicate matter we speak of, is all." she offered in Rodorian, tone taking on a hint of remorse before she turned back to Freagon.

"It's fine, I'm used to it," Jaelnec said with a shrug and a sidelong glance at Freagon.
Freagon, meanwhile, did not switch back to Rodorian. "I told you before, the soul was in the sword when I got it. It was my father's sword that passed to me when he died. He never told me about there being a soul in it."

"So the events are separate? Curious... I... it was a noble thing you did for 'the boy'. I know that you are trying to accustom him to the rigours of the world, to inure him against cruelty, but you should not forget that without tenderness he would not ever live. I... am not trying to be critical. I can just see that he has a purity of heart I wish to protect, and I know that it cannot be protected without also being nurtured. I think I was wrong about you; you are very principled. You must have had to endure much hardship, for your heart to be hardened so, and I am both sorry that it happened and grateful for the strength it has given you. Suffering, for better or worse, is our constant companion. It must be if we are to live and not survive."

There was a period of several seconds during which Freagon did seem to acknowledge Irah's presence at all, but simply focused on traversing the forest. Then he abruptly asked, now in Rodorian: "How much do you know about the Knights of the Will?"

"Very little." She replied, also in Rodorian.
"Only really that they were once common, and were rendered extinct some time ago... Until you, I suppose."

"So they say," he confirmed with a nod. "My father and mother were both Knights of the Will, and were the ones to train me. Do you know what it takes for a squire of our order to become a knight?"

Irah shook her head to indicate that she did not. "If the process of becoming a squire is anything to go by..." she began, leaving the rest of the statement unfinished.

Freagon shot her a brief glance before looking ahead again. "Jaelnec, how are you supposed to respond when I say 'Hunter, against who shall you Test your Will?'"
The younger nightwalker was surprised for a moment, both at having been suddenly included in the conversation he had just been a spectator to until now and to have his master address him by name. Even so he only hesitated a second before saying: "'My Will shall be Tested by Sir Freagon, my enemy today but never again.'"
The old knight nodded his head grimly. "I am the last Knight of the Will. The only way he is going to become one is by defeating me. So you'll have to forgive me if I'm not exactly warm and nurturing to him."

"That is a very grim way of doing things. I understand why you feel the way that you do, I think... but the pain at his defeating you is supposed only to be eclipsed by its pride. Love is a more powerful motivator than anything, Freagon, even justice. Even goodness. Even the Gods. A heart full of love will do anything to protect that which it cares for, no matter the price... and it is a grim price indeed, to have to kill one's surrogate father... or to be killed by one's surrogate son." Irah replied, her tone suddenly more mournful. She treated every encounter with the short-lived races as though it was the last time she could see them--and sometimes with other deigan too, seeing as they could be killed just the same... as though their time were already inherently limited, and each grain of it was precious. She knew that pretty words were not going to fix things, of course, but in this rare moment of vulnerability she was not going to miss the opportunity to truly bear her heart.

"Oh, he just has to defeat me. He doesn't have to kill me." Freagon's tone started to drift into disinterest. "I don't care about any of the details, he just has to be willing to fight me with everything he has, even if that means killing me." He switched to Fermian: "His heart is too 'pure' to do that unless he hates me."

"Ah, forgive me--your perpetually dour nature had me assume the worst." Irah began in Rodorian, though switched back to Fermian as he did.
"Please, show him some kindness more often. Tell him what he means to you, and remind him of the why in word as well as deed. I know you want to make him strong, but that does not mean purging him of vulnerability. Strength is in being able to be vulnerable and still prevail, is it not?"

"I wouldn't know," Freagon shrugged, switching back to Rodorian again. Jaelnec stared at him expectantly for a moment, but it did not seem as though the old knight was going to continue.

"Thank you, Sir Freagon. I am grateful for your time, and will gladly repay you in kind if there is anything that I can do for you. May I examine Roct, to observe the spirit within?" Irah asked in Rodorian, giving Freagon a gentle bow. She spared a quick glance to Jaelnec and offered him a slight and blushing smile before she resumed her expectant look at Freagon.

This request, finally, had Freagon turn his head fully and fix an intense stare directly at Irah, his single black eye observing her with such a dark, weirdly underplayed menace that was the reason he had earned the moniker of "Grimglare".
Grinding his teeth audibly, he detached the scabbard from his belt and handed Roct to Irah. "Go ahead."

Irah met his stare without flinching, though it felt like a physical blow so palpable was the intensity of the stare. For all her physical frailty, the softness of her words and presence, she withstood its impact with the composure of a seasoned warrior--and she permitted herself to return his gaze with her own full intensity. Her crimson irises sparkled brilliantly in the dappled forest light, gleaming with a determination and sharpness that was only made greater by the juxtaposition of her form.
She took the blade reverently, focusing her magical senses upon it first within its sheath. If she did not have to draw the blade she did not want to, figuring both that it would show the appropriate respect and present something of a barrier between her raw soul and the sartal.

Observing the sword magically, it was not immediately obvious to Irah that there was anything unusual about it besides the fact that its supermetal blade, but she would very quickly realize that part of that was exactly because of how sartal interacted with magical energy. One of the many remarkable qualities that set sartal apart even from other supermetals was its extreme willingness to absorb magical energy, but also its unwillingness to let that energy go again. Any energy Irah directed at the blade to sense what was inside was thus simply absorbed into the sword all but irretrievably, leaving it disconnected from her soul and thus incapable of conveying information back to her.
Though she did not need to draw the sword from its scabbard, she did need to grasp the hilt before she finally got a sense of what was inside of it. As Caleb had said earlier, there was indeed a soul in there; a big and powerful one. Moreover, it did not feel like a soul you would expect in an object like this. There was nothing divine about it, and it did not feel undead; to her senses, it felt as though there was a living mundane creature in there.
She would even be able to tell that the soul was very, very faintly responding to her probing, demonstrating awareness of her, but either it did not want to actually interact with her... or something was preventing it from doing so.

Irah did not expend any more of her limited magical energy on probing the blade once everything was confirmed to her senses--there was a distinctive way that sartal plucked at magical energy that was nearly impossible to fake. She pulled the sword from the sheath to determine whether the faintness of the response was due to disinterest or inability. She'd never gotten the chance to actually wield sartal before--and some part of her felt conflicted. It was meant to be earned, bestowed only upon those who had performed incredible services or distinguished themselves amongst all others.
Still, she could not let that stop her from attempting to commune further with the spirit within--she had trusted Caleb's words, but to feel it herself gave her some small amount of confidence.

Even free from its scabbard, nothing seemed to change about the presence inside the sword. It seemed aware of Irah, and she could feel it responding to her attempt at communing with it, but that was all.

"Hmm... it seems there is indeed a spirit within--and as Caleb said, it feels... completely mundane. How curious; it must be a unique property of Sartal, combined with whatever circumstances transpired to get the soul stuck in here. Have you ever tried to commune with it, Sir Freagon of the Will? What was your father's name?" Irah asked, and she indicated with her free hand and movements of her head that she would like Freagon to grasp the hilt of the blade too. She wondered if perhaps it had something to do with the Knights of the Will, or Freagon's past specifically, and that she could act as something of an intermediary between it and Freagon. Perhaps then it would be more inclined to speak.

"Not really," Freagon grumbled, grasping the handle of his sword. All this time his stare had not strayed from Irah for even a fraction of a second, nor had it waned even slightly in intensity. "And my father was Sir Telagon."
The name did not sound familiar to Irah at all, nor did the spirit feel any more responsive once Freagon grasped the hilt. If anything, it felt as though the spirit receded a little and got somewhat harder for her to sense at all.

With that, Irah recognised she would get no further--but any information was information. She lacked the context to put together the story of what happened here--but she could at least provide Freagon with some information. She move to back away from the sword, returning it to Freagon's possession with a reverent bow.
"Thank you. It seems the spirit has shied away from my efforts... but I am getting the sense that it does not bear any fondness for the Knights of the Will, or for you or your father specifically. I am afraid I lack the context to learn more, and we have shared enough for one day."

Freagon took his sword, reattached it to his belt and finally blinked as he turned his attention back to the trees ahead.

As Freagon began to affix his blade at his hip, Lhirin stepped in--he'd been trailing behind Irah, nearby, but hadn’t seemed to be paying close attention. However, after Irah had managed to observe Roct, his ears had perked slightly and he'd actually managed to pull himself from the Journal. Eyes wide as ever--though some of the manic energy from the piaan had faded--Lhirin moved close enough to more comfortably address the Knight. Of course, given his lack of social tact, he ended up slightly closer than he ought to have been. “Sir Freagon. Your blade, Roct. I admit, as an enchanter and craftsman myself I would love to examine it…” he trailed off though, not actually asking, yet.
Lhirin glanced at Freagon’s naturally severe mien and if the man were looking at him, the deigan would hold his gaze with an unerring intensity. He’d frown, remembering that Irah had offered much of herself before asking to see the blade. However, Lhirin was aware enough of his own failings that he knew he could not do what Irah had done. “It is precious, both materially and…personally, I think,” Lhirin said, his words slower now as he tried very hard to think through the implications of it having once been the property of Freagon’s father. “...and it is a thing you have earned not simply through inheritance, but your own merits, by my measure, little though you likely find it. I would be…ah, honored? Deeply grateful, if you would just briefly part with it that I might see if there are any further curiosities I might glean from the blade.”

Freagon turned his head to look at Lhirin, but quite notably his glare was nowhere near as intense as it had been with Irah. It was still dark (how could it be anything else?) and intimidating, but did not seem to hold quite the same menace as it had before.
"You can be direct with me," he told the deigan and this time simply drew the sword rather than spend time detaching its scabbard. "It won't offend me." He slid his hands down and held it by the blade, offering the hilt to Lhirin.

Roct, as Lhirin examined it, was certainly an unusual sword. Just from holding it he would observe that it was indeed significantly lighter than a sword of that size would normally be; it felt like the entire weapon weighed maybe 1 kg or so, with what felt like nearly half of that weight in the hilt rather than the blade. Its bizarre balance somehow made it feel even lighter in his hand than it was, and it would be fairly obvious that without its leaf-shaped blade putting more mass toward the tip, it would have been close to worthless for chopping.
Examining the blade, he would find that its edge was razor-sharp, with double bevel that extended all the way from the edge to the center of the blade. It was quite finely crafted and perfectly smooth and plain. There were no inscriptions of any kind, ornamental and arcane alike, and no signs of any enchantment beyond the alteration necessary to make sartal in the first place.

At Freagon’s words, Lhirin visibly relaxed and even managed a small smile, his expression and body language radiating gratitude. “That is a relief,” the deigan replied frankly, even noticing that the intensity Irah had been afforded seemed less present in the man’s expression—odd. People usually seemed to find him far less personable and that considered, Lhirin wasn’t entirely sure what to think of Freagon’s easy acceptance. Nonetheless, almost thoughtlessly, he accepted the blade, handling it with a care and precision somehow even greater than Irah’s. Lhirin took a few steps away from the Knight and gave the blade a single experimental swing. He nodded his head once, his feathered brows rising slightly, then sinking again in a frown of concentration. The deigan craftsman brought the flat of the blade close to his eyes, holding it carefully, using his peripheral vision to navigate. “Hmm…” he murmured thoughtfully as he pulled the blade away from his face and regarded it, the flat gently laid on one of his palms. He was careful so as not to cut himself. “Remarkable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “The artifice on its own would be startling, despite the simplicity of the weapon’s design, but…just the raw capacity that Sartal possesses shouldn’t be enough to trap the soul within,” he mused, thinking aloud. Lhirin closed his eyes for a half-breath and when he opened them he’d already positioned his fingers over the blade without touching it, splaying them out as wide as he could manage without hurting himself. Though it would not be visible to the Knight—or likely perceptible to anyone present except the Divine and maybe Irah if she were paying attention—Lhirin had extended a single thread-like trail of magical energy from each finger. After a brief instant as he narrowed his focus down as much as he could manage, Lhirin had each thread of energy make contact with the blade at intervals several inches apart so that each one entered the blade at a different point along the sword.

Lhirin felt each thread enter the blade, and each thread be devoured by the ravenous supermetal. No matter where he attempted to make his point of entry, the magical energy was simply absorbed... and it might occur to him, and Irah as well, that neither of them felt more than one presence inside the sword. There was no separation between the soul residing within it and the magical energy the blade absorbed.
Freagon simply watched the proceedings without a word, while Jaelnec looked from one to the other with eyes wide with curiosity and concern.

"It almost feels like the sword itself is alive, doesn't it?" Irah mused, though she looked to Lhirin for further guidance. If he wished for her appraisal she would offer it freely, he only had to be direct.

Lhirin’s head tilted, much like a bird’s, as he regarded the blade, ceasing the process of inputting energy. “A living soul…yet it takes absorbed energy aside from itself…” his voice trailed off to silence as a look of consternation overtook his features.
Lhirin’s eyes narrowed further and then—without looking at Freagon—he asked a question. “Any chance…you know how old this sword is?”

"How old it is?" Freagon repeated, the intonation of the words hinting at mild surprise. "Well... as far as I know, it's probably about three hundred years old."

"Is Roct the name of a thing? I'm struggling to place the word--do you perhaps know the story of how the blade was made? All sartal weapons are so--unique, purpose-made. Perhaps that might give us some insight into its heritage."

Freagon shrugged. "It's the name of the sword. The story I was told is that it was created as a reward for saving a true deigan city from a coven of necromancers lead by a lich."

"Do you happen to know the name of the city, or where it was? Even the smallest bit of information might lead to something more complete." Irah replied, looking thoughtfully into the distance and at no-one in particular as she seemed to ponder something unseen.

Freagon pondered for a moment. "I know it was a city in Rodoria, which to my knowledge means the only option is Kvahn'nabath'alon'sel."

With the blade still in hand, and their words in mind, Lhirin moved till he was near enough to Irah that she too could touch the blade. With a thoughtful look on his features, feathered brow creased as he quite obviously parsed through his memories, Lhirin spoke up. "My senses aren't enough to detect the occupant's attention," he began, seeming to think through each word, his words slower and measured than normal. "...and I'm not sure if it can hear us through the Sartal...but perhaps if we spoke the right language it might...respond?"
His voice pitched up slightly at the tail end and then he glanced at Irah, holding the blade at an angle where she could easily access the flat. "Lend me your senses," he said, and though it wasn't an order, it didn't entirely sound like a request either--though she'd know that it was purely through her familiarity with him. Someone else might think he was being rather blunt and presumptuous, that he was imposing perhaps. Fortunately...Irah wasn't just anyone.

Irah did as requested, once again taking grip of the handle and trying to focus on the faint echoes of the spirit within.
"What should I say? It didn't seem to respond to Fermian before--Kvahn'nabath'alon'sel." she spoke, trying the name of the city to see if that got any response from the presence within.

The soul, as far as Irah could tell, was still responding to her trying to commune with it, but it did not seem to respond any more or less when she mentioned the name of the city.

Lhirin had thought this through it seemed, for as she asked he responded immediately, his silver irises meeting her crimson ones. "Gazzeraleshei," he said perfunctorily, his pronunciation precise. He'd had the thought that this weapon must have been old, very old. So what was perhaps older and more widespread than Fermian once had been? The answer had been obvious: the Gazzeral mothertongue.

Irah was a little taken aback at Lhirin's suggestion of using Gazzeraleshei, but she complied immediately without thinking and spoke the greeting that her father had said to her every morning when she was a child, her tone tinged with gentle memories of parental fondness that Lhirin would recognise from their time at her home.

There was a subtle change in how the soul responded, as it seemed to calm down but also extend harder as if to meet Irah's influence.

Irah's facial expression changed immediately with surprised fondness, and she shared a quick glance of excitement with Lhirin as she reported her findings:
"Ah, that seems to have worked! I can sense the spirit within straining to connect with me, and the hesitation it displayed earlier calming." she spoke in Gazzeraleshei first, then turned to Freagon and repeated it in Fermian for his benefit. She turned her attention back to the sword immediately after, straining herself as much as she could safely bear while speaking another phrase in Gazzeraleshei and looking expectantly at Lhirin, eyes alight with excitement:
"I am trying to reach you, but something is preventing me from doing so--is there any sign you can give me, anything I can do to help?"

The soul seemed to resume its prior level of activity rather than continue to react as it had before, responding to her presence in a passive sort of way. It did not appear as though it was reacting to her question at all.

Lhirin’s head cocked slightly and his eyes widened fractionally before he glanced back at the blade—his gaze almost manic with intensity as if he could concentrate harder to perceive what she was. He knew he couldn’t of course, not without the requisite training at least, but that didn’t stop him from doing it anyways. After a few moments as she finished relaying the info, the deigan mage glanced at Freagon and gave the Knight a respectful nod, as if to further thank him for allowing them to examine the blade for so many minutes when it was clearly precious to him.

Freagon simply looked at Lhirin and Irah in silence, waiting for them to finish examining his sword.

Changing tacts somewhat, Irah forewent speaking aloud. The fact she could sense it at all and it could react to what she conveyed meant there was some link--but could a soul trapped within sartal of all things possibly have any awareness of the outside world? All she could really communicate with the presence in the sword was emotive. She pondered for a brief moment in silence, her thoughts picking through fragmented memories of her youth and conversations with her father. Her internal monologue shifted to Gazzeraleshei as she thought, and she tried to communicate concern and a sense of safety to the presence within.
There was only one kind of creature she could imagine that would be able to sustain themselves from magical energy while not feeling undead--a dragon. Roct... something about it did feel vaguely draconic to her, she supposed, though she was far from certain about that.
"Roct... is that a name?" she thought, expressing a warm greeting and curiosity through her soul as best as she could.

Again she felt the spirit calm and reach toward her, trying and failing to connect to her.

"What do you know of the sword's creation, Freagon? There is a presence within the sword that appears to be able to sustain itself upon magical energy--and it is certainly not undead, nor divine. It also responds to Gazzeraleshei... This is quite a tenuous theory, but... it perhaps feels to me something like a dragon. Dragons are the only living, mundane creatures I'm aware of that can consume magical energy--and there must be some link or breach allowing energy to pass through, or I would not be able to sense it at all nor it I. It reaches out to me, trying to reach me but failing... As though prevented, perhaps?" Irah spoke in Fermian, alternating her gaze between Freagon and Lhirin as she provided them with her feedback and questions.

“Fascinating,” Lhirin commented, before he gently shifted the blade until its pommel was pointed towards the Knight as he offered it back. “At your leisure, with more time in different circumstances where other matters do not require our attention, perhaps more can be gleaned,” Lhirin said as he met Freagon’s black-eyed gaze. There was something pure about his manner, as if nothing the Knight could do would ever bother or phase him.
Indeed, Freagon could have treated Lhirin as if he were less than dirt and the deigan would not have cared in the least.

"I only know what I already told you," Freagon shrugged, taking his sword back as soon as it was offered and, with a quick and smooth motion, easily slid it back into its scabbard.

"Well, thank you for your patience and grace. If the mysteries surrounding the sword are something that you wish to unravel after our business here is concluded, Lhirin and I would be honoured to assist however we can." Irah added after Lhirin handed the sword back, somewhat disappointed in the tease of it all. She could not abide a mystery dangling in front of her that she seemed uniquely suited to have a part in deciphering--and she spoke in Rodorian so that Jaelnec could hear too. She gave him a brief and furtive glance as she mentioned staying around after they were done together, before returning her gaze to Lhirin and squeezing his shoulder gently.

Lhirin nodded faintly, as if agreeing with her statement--or perhaps it was simply an acknowledgement of her touch. Nonetheless, he allowed her to guide him once more and after a few minutes he took the fallen Melenian's journal back out and began to run his fingertips through the pages once more.

Jaelnec's eyes widened and he donned a small smile on Irah's insinuation that there would be an "after" getting the healer back, only for him to immediately curb his enthusiasm with a - mostly imperceptible due to his uniform black eyes - glance at his master. It was well and good that the deigans seemed to want to stick around for a bit, but throughout the fifteen years he had traveled with Freagon, it had just been the two of them. There had been random acquaintances, employers like the baroness, people to save like the healer and others that happened to be fighting the same enemies as Freagon, but all of them were ultimately left behind as soon as the job was done.
Yet as he spent a moment longer pondering - incidentally missing Irah squeezing Lhirin's shoulder - he found himself recalling what Freagon had told Yanin earlier. "It isn't just the two of us anymore," he had said, as well as something about Jaelnec having someone to protect and be protected by. He could just have meant for this one excursion, but that did not make a lot of sense. It was not as though Jaelnec could go back to being a page... could he? And if he could not, that would mean that Freagon expected it to continue to not just be the two of them anymore.

While the squire's thoughts once again occupied themselves with possibilities and eventualities, Freagon shrugged at Irah's words. "I don't really care. It cuts fine, with or without a spirit."

Irah approached Caleb with a somewhat reproachful and tentative look, not wanting to push herself upon him but simultaneously refusing to let the opportunity pass her by - he could simply refuse, after all.
"I had hoped we would get a little time to chat more privately, if you're amenable? I don't want to impose, of course, but..." Irah began, her hands clasped together tensely as she walked and made a little more effort to get closer to Caleb.

Caleb, who had been walking more-or-less on his own anyway and spent his time looking at his own feet, turned his head to fix his glowing eyes on Irah.
"Very well," he said wearily.

"I know that this has been very difficult, and... I appreciate very much what you are doing for these people. I... want you to know that you are not alone unless you want to be. I cannot replace what you have lost, and only time will salve those wounds... but I am here for you." Irah continued, though there was a hesitance and trepidation in her voice that was not normally present. She did not make an effort to touch Caleb, though she wanted to, instead letting her hand hover near his back before withdrawing it sheepishly.

Staring at her with lidless eyes, his inhuman face unreadable, Caleb told her: "You have misunderstood, Deo'irah. I am not doing this for 'these people'. I am doing this for Feevesha."

"An action's results often spread beyond its intention. Whatever the reason, I appreciate you." She replied, looking thoughtful with a tinge of melancholy.
"I wish I had known her--she sounds like she was among the best of us. If... it wouldn't be too painful for you, would you tell me some stories about her later?"

A grim chuckle escaped the thalk. "You do realize that you are asking for stories from a fallen Angel of Deceit, do you not? You would have to assume that whatever I told you would likely be fabricated to serve my own purposes. Besides," he added, turning his attention back to his feet, "in case you forgot, I do not intend to be here 'later'."

Irah chuckled at Caleb's statement, responding to his grim mirth with her own.
"It isn't for me, Caleb, but for you. To remember, to say goodbye. You divines are not that different from us, not really--but the endlessness of your existence can get in the way of seeing the simple truth of things. Deigan are very similar, in many respects. I care not a whit whether the stories are true or false. I care that you have the opportunity to relive your joys, to honour your pain, to feel what you must feel, and to forge a path onward. I don't mean to sound sanctimonious, just... I want you to have a connection to Reniam, no matter how tenuous. Who can say if you will always feel the way you do now? I would be honoured to summon you into a body of sticks and stones and while the hours of the night away as we put the world to rights--if you decide that you want that at any point... I could not forgive myself if I did not at least offer." Irah replied, turning her gaze up towards the canopy of the forest as she mused.

Caleb turned his head just enough to shoot Irah a sidelong glance through the visor of the helmet he wore as part of his disguise, then returned his attention to the ground at his feet. He did not say anything in response.

Irah extended her magical senses out to Caleb so as to read his soul somewhat, searching for answers about his emotional state that he was not divulging--somewhat out of sheepish embarrassment for perhaps pushing too hard when his wounds were so fresh, but also to simply have some confirmation about what he was going through.
"Ah, you will have to forgive my bleeding heart. I only want to help, and I am sorry if I have made this about me." Irah sighed, shaking her head a little at herself as she walked beside Caleb.

Reading Caleb's soul provided Irah with two notable insights. Firstly, she was able to get a feel for his state of mind. Divine spirits like him were quite different than mundane souls, with different currents, patterns and tells to look for, but luckily Irah was not just a necromancer, but a necromancer who had had extensive dealings with divines already. Though his soul was alien compared to those around him, she could plainly tell that he, at his core, was still experiencing significant emotional agony of some kind... and, more superficially and immediately, she could tell that he was wary and annoyed, almost angry, even.
The other insight she gleaned was not in how his soul was, but how it reacted to her, making it clear that Caleb could feel her probing him. Again he glanced at her, and she would notice his wariness intensify and his annoyance begin to escalate into anger.
"I told you once already: you presume much, Deo'irah."
With that, she felt his soul close itself off to her senses, just as Caleb averted his gaze from her.

"... It is apparently a flaw of mine. I must presume in the absence of knowledge, though... I am sorry for intruding. I am a healer by nature, and find it difficult to ignore such profound pain." She replied with a heavy sigh.
"I should not be trying to solve a problem that you did not ask me to solve. I can offer you space, or solutions, or just somewhere to vent your feelings--but I won't mention it further unless you bring it up. Would you like me to leave?" She asked, wringing her hands as she walked. She did not like feeling so powerless to help, but the right words seemed to escape her grasp like grains of sand running through her fingers. Perhaps it was not a matter of the right words at all--but their time together grew short, by Caleb's own admission, and she felt like she'd had to try.

Without looking at her, Caleb asked: "What do you mean by 'solutions'?"

"The solution to most problems of this ilk is, I'm afraid, to talk about them. They say that a burden shared is a burden halved. I do not know if there is a solution I could provide you for your feelings on your torture and imprisonment and abandonment--time is often the salve for these things--but if you do not have someone to support you, it becomes very easy for your rightful bitterness and anger and sorrow to overwhelm you. That is what I worry about... you remind me of Lhirin, in some ways. Though it is not my place to divulge his past, he was once kept in a binding circle. It is a punishment the Ascended Deigan favour, believing it 'enlightened'... A vicious lie, as we can all attest to. I found him broken and alone, and now he is... Doing better. Those scars might never heal, truth be told, nor might yours... but the only way he even began to make steps towards recovery is by having someone who he could connect with emotionally, to provide him with a grounding presence and someone he could be vulnerable with safely. I... it did not occur to me what lens you must be viewing my prodding with, like the jaws of a trap waiting to close that you have vowed never to be caught in again. I'm rambling, I'm sorry. It has been quite the day." She replied, casting a quick look back over her shoulder towards Lhirin as she mentioned him. She turned her head forward again and brought her right hand up to her face, daubing away the beginnings of a tear with the diaphanous white silk of her robe.

As Irah spoke, Caleb first turned his head to look at her, then followed her eyeline spot and identify Lhirin - who he had not heard the name of before now - , then back at her again. He listened in silence until she had finished her rambling.
"So if you were to die when we face these bandits," he said, speaking slowly and ominously, "you would expect Lhirin to fully replace you with a new person within hours of your death?"

"Heh, no. He could not--and nor can you. I am not a replacement for Feevesha, I could never be to you what she was--nor would I want to be. The difference in your analogy is that you are intending to send yourself into exile after we are done, with no means of return, and more pain than a being should ever have to endure. I would not let an animal with a sword lodged between its ribs run away into the forest never to be seen again either--no matter its instincts to hide and preserve itself."

"I see," Caleb stated, though his tone conveyed just how unmoved he was by her words. "At this point I think I would like to avail myself of your offer to leave."

Irah nodded, though she lingered a little before she left.
"I'm sorry, Caleb. You are free, now and forevermore--and part of freedom is making your own choices. That is Rilon's gift to us, and I would never see it denied to you. Never." she spoke, reproachfully and softly. She hoped beyond hope that he would reconsider, but knew that forcing the issue would not be helping, nor freedom--just imposing her ideals on someone who did not want them. She then moved to head back towards Lhirin, though she found herself looking back at him over her shoulder. Was there a series of words that would have worked, that conveyed her desire to understand and help in a way that he was receptive to? She did not know; but she would remember him forever, no matter what happened--only time would tell if that was as a success, or a failure.

Lhirin saw Irah departing Caleb’s side, but he only gave her a cursory glance. At that stage he’d put the journal in his offhand and wasn’t attempting to read it anymore. There was no point…it wasn’t anything he recognized so it was either in some kind of code, or it was a lexicon that Feevesha had created herself. For the duration of Irah and Caleb’s conversation, Lhirin had been studying the two instead. There was so much of a mortal in the divine, yet also other things that were distinct. He hadn’t reached out with his magical senses, there would have been no point. He just didn’t have the sensory precision to deign anything from doing so.
As Irah fully returned to his side, she’d find Lhirin still staring at the angel’s back as he walked. His eyelids twitched slightly, then he finally blinked. “Didn’t go well,” he commented, the words a simple statement of fact. Almost totally disconnected from his nearly blank expression, the deigan’s hand rose and gently rubbed her upper back for a moment before falling again.
“This is not how you wish to leave things,” Lhirin said, his silver eyes turning to meet her crimson gaze. It wasn’t phrased like a question, but the way his eyes shifted over her features almost implied one. Then he squeezed her shoulder and picked up his pace, clearly intending to approach the angel.

Caleb just kept walking, not immediately acknowledging Lhirin's approach.

Lhirin, undeterred, came up alongside the fallen angel of deceit. “What of her legacy?” he prompted, his tone questioning, his expression serious though his eyes were not turned upon Caleb. Instead, he was staring straight ahead as they walked. Clearly, Caleb did not care about his own fate, nor did he seem to care about presumption. So Lhirin did not try to presume, he was bad at it anyways.

"Legacy?" The fallen thalk shook his head. "That is why I am here. I will save the healer and slay the bandits, as Feevesha intended."

“An act done in her stead, to make some small use of what she sacrificed to embody you is not a legacy of her life.” Lhirin said, his words blunt and tactless, but somehow his tone held no malice at all it was just a bold-faced honesty lacking in the social guile that most Mundanes carried themselves with.
Lhirin turned his head slightly, regarding Caleb, his head tilted slightly, “If we do not kill the bandits, they will only remember a strange divine assisting a ragtag group of adventurers. I will remember you, as will Deo'Irah, but I never met Feevesha. Her flesh might compose your form, but it is not her that makes it move. You honor her spirit though.” Lhirin nodded, frowning slightly as he looked away, silver eyes trailing along the ground as he walked. “...or what I imagine her spirit might have been like,” he said, not even attempting to mince words or find an angle. He had not known Feevesha, would never know her. Not really. It was unfortunate, for it seemed she had been a good sort.
Tragic really.

Caleb shot a sidelong glance at Lhirin. "I assume there is a point you mean to be making?"

Lhirin paused, glancing up, but not at Caleb. His eyes instead shot ahead, deeper into the forest, staring into the middle distance. Then he laughed, sudden, perfunctory, before calming again and shaking his head. “Is there?” He asked, giving the angel an uncharacteristic smile, sidelong and almost a bit goofy-looking, his head drooping to one side slightly. After a moment he shook his head and gradually the brief mirth left his mien as he returned to a more placid, thoughtful expression. “It is not often I can speak with a new Angel, even a fallen one--perhaps especially a fallen one...” Lhirin said idly, not getting to the point, despite Caleb trying to make him do just that.
“I've not had the pleasure of a Melenian's company either, not in a truly meaningful way.” Lhirin shook his head again and couldn't help but chuckle. He rubbed at the back of his head a bit, ruffling some of his feathers before smoothing them back down. “But you don't care about all that. Can't trust, not after such a betrayal, not after so long isolated. Not after so recent a loss. You just want an easy answer and the quiet of familiar isolation again, yes?”
Lhirin--for the first time in their still short conversation--actually looked at him properly then, meeting Caleb's gaze with his own silver one. There was something in those eyes, in that glance, an unspoken something, but perhaps the divine could glean meaning even from something like body language and a glance. It was as if Lhirin knew some fraction of the feeling that Caleb might be going through. He wasn't smiling either, that had gone from his expression again, leaving only an almost grave look upon his visage. Lhirin, for once, let the memory of what he'd been through surface in his mind. His feathers shifted slight, ruffling like a shudder and the edge of one eyelid twitched. His fingers flexed and relaxed, flexed again--as if itching for anything

Caleb did not seem particularly bothered by Lhirin's arguably strange behavior, nor did he seem to get impatient despite the deigan seemingly dancing around the point rather than getting to it. He just kept walking and watching Lhirin, absorbing every shift in demeanor with those glowing, slitted eyes behind his illusory helmet.
"No, we are not all like that," the angel agreed. Quite notably he said "we" rather than "you", possibly indicating that he was speaking of something broader. "Deo'irah seems rather intent on telling me she is different. That she wants to help me. I suspect you mean to tell me something similar. Understand that words are tools for manipulation; no amount of talk is going to convince me of anything." His eyes narrowed. "On the contrary: the harder you try, the more certain I feel that you are trying to control me. You want to prove yourselves worthy of Feevesha's legacy? Show me. Do not tell me."

Lhirin glanced Caleb's way as he spoke and after a moment's consideration nodded. "Spoken like a thalk, truly. Words are just a vessel for meaning. Little else," the deigan replied. He was silent for a time, just walking beside the fallen thalk for awhile, the sounds of the forest surrounding them. Lhirin smiled as he heard a bird call...and then its reply. It was a subtle expression and he took in a deep breath as he did so, savoring the crisp, clean air. There was a simple, quiet joy in that moment as he dispelled that old memory and let it wash away. “What was she like?” The mage asked after a time.

There was a long pause, a good sixteen pregnant seconds, before Caleb replied: "Illiterate. Guileless. Meek. Nervous. Gullible. Trusting. Curious. Honest. Hopeful."
Though his tone started out hard and perfunctory, it seemed to grow softer with each trait he named.
"Generous. Selfless. Happy. Funny. Attentive. Sympathetic." He paused, swallowing audibly. "Good. Feevesha was good. That is what she was like."

For once, Lhirin didn't seem utterly lost in a social situation, he gave space for Caleb to simply remember and feel, remaining silent. Looking thoughtful, the deigan thought on the descriptors that the fallen thalk had chosen. At first...almost insulting, as if to mask his grief, but then...softer, more honest, kinder. Truly he must have cared for her deeply, and so just as deeply, he grieved. Lhirin considered for a long serious of moments what to do next, then he glanced to Caleb and raised his hand, the one that held Feevesha's journal/spellbook. He couldn't read it, the script was utterly foreign to him. There were patterns, sure, but since none of it even remotely resembled any of the languages he knew--and he knew many--he simply could not decipher it.
He said none of that however, instead he just held Caleb's gaze, offering the journal. “Perhaps...had we been able to meet, she might have shared with me, but she is not here.”
Lhirin shook his head, as if dismissing that, “But this piece of who she was remains. I think she'd rather you had it,” he said, and Lhirin smiled, the expression soft and guileless and kind. In a way it was far more open and expressive than he typically was, but there was not a single shred of manipulation in it, no intent beyond one to give an honest memento to Caleb. “I would preserve it, if I could...and I know you plan to be rid of this reminder of her passing, her sacrifice, as soon as you can,” he added, clearly referring to Caleb's vessel of flesh. “...but, at least while you are with us, this might serve as some small comfort that part of her remains. I suppose it is something of a legacy, if only one that you can understand.”

Caleb watched and listened in silence, and took the book into his large, long-fingered hands when offered, awkwardly careful with it not to damage it with his claws. He opened it and looked at the pages, filled with the somewhat systemized claw-marks Feevesha had left in the paper. Carefully ran his thumb over it, feeling the marks as she had felt them when she was reading.
"I thank you for the sentiment," he said after a while, closing the book and offering it back to Lhirin, "but though she left the marks on the pages, it is not her words. They are the words of Hai'vreh'era. I helped Feevesha get it so she could defend herself, but magic is dangerous. I am debating destroying it and erasing its vile knowledge for good."

Lhirin watched Caleb almost reverently run his fingers across the marks of the journal, glad that he treated it with a similar level of reverence. However, when the former angel offered it back he blinked several times, surprised. More notably however, was that he actively cringed and had to restrain himself from snatching the delicate journal back from Caleb in that moment. Lhirin took a deep breath, barely managing to make the exhale normal, rather than it coming out as a hiss as it would have naturally. After a moment, through pure discipline, Lhirin forced himself to relax before gently accepting the journal back into his own grasp, tucking it against his wrist. “I…hmm, I may not be able to read it, but I would rather you did not destroy knowledge,” Lhirin said, his voice quiet, but resolute.
“So much learning has been lost over the centuries. Even dangerous knowledge can be used to prevent further harm. However, I will not ask that you help me translate it,” he added, shaking his head, “…you have no reason to trust any of us, after all.”
After that he fell into deep thought as he awaited a potential response. He wondered what sort of actions might Feevesha have valued. What she might have been like. Lhirin could see the tragedy in her untimely death, and the fact it had been entirely avoidable. It was an even greater shame that she had died because of some of the attributes that made her Good, as Caleb had put it. “Such a shame…” Lhirin said quietly, mostly to himself, shaking his head again. Part of him had wanted to ask the angel to translate the journal, a big part of him even, but he didn’t. It felt wrong and it felt like it would go nowhere. It wasn’t why he had come to talk with Caleb anyways.

Staring at Lhirin, Caleb slowly nodded his head. "If we both survive, show me the book again later. We will see how I feel about it, and you, then."

Lhirin missed a step as Caleb replied, catching himself and glancing over, eyes wide with surprise. He wet his lips unconsciously and nodded once, before looking away. “I appreciate the consideration,” Lhirin responded, then he slowed his pace, allowing Caleb to naturally pull ahead and Irah to catch up to him as he thoughtfully looked at the ground, considering the conversation. When eventually he and Irah were side-by-side, Lhirin gently bumped his shoulder against hers. He remained silent for a time though, only speaking after perhaps a full two minutes. “I think…the world is darker without her in it,” the deigan mage said before looking up to meet Irah’s crimson gaze. Then, carefully, he wrapped the journal in a further protection of cloth and handed it to Irah for safekeeping. It was more likely that he would be closer to the fighting and at greater risk than she and he would not have the book see harm—illegible though it was to him.