Shienvien

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The bandit sputtered when inquired about the dead brute, twisting his bruised torso and still guarding his mangled hand to actually look at the large, shocked and impaled man, only to swear and, with what was perhaps surprising intensity given that he had been half-dragged past a dozen of his dead comrades, and could easily see at least another dozen if he bothered to take a look at the farthest side of the battlefield the counterattack had originated from, proclaimed, "You're damn right he's important, he's our commander!”
Yanin might not have been good at reading reactions, but it was at least more of one than that of just seeing death, nay, slaughter, on their side. Not many of "you" left ... were there? Not hours before, Quintin had reported these people had been talking something implying a successfully completed mission and returning home.
"And who'd that be, exactly?" Yanin continued with his line of questioning - not that he had much better to do with his time for the time being, especially with the angel of fear still there. "You, your commander."

For as long as the bandit kept talking, he would stay alive, at least. Surely, he could see that his fellow bandits had lost already, with only five of them being - at least physically - still functional, and two more being alive, if liable to expire in less than a day without medical aid. More accurate estimates were best left to the actual healers here. Their mission had been rendered a failure ... or had it? They wouldn't be reaping the benefits of the mission, but whatever it was, it could still have been completed, for, most likely, worse.
This guy only had his life, death and health left to bargain with. Maybe those of the other dead or incapacitated bandits. Maybe a family or friends, somewhere - seemed on brand for people such as these to threaten the families of others, and though Yanin himself wouldn't let incur any harm upon innocents - no further harm than the removal of a family member past redemption, anyway - then these people wouldn't exactly know it.
Lady Bor wasn't exactly subtle in telling them that if these people couldn't be safely restrained or tried something, she wouldn't mind if they died. Her focus sounded to be solely on Borstown and her people - not the wider tracking down of whatever nefarious things these bandits or their employers had been up to in Rodoria, or even Reniam at large. And she was quite blatant about being ready to execute them on the spot for the crimes they had already committed even if they remained cooperative. Safer for them all, certainly.
It would be up to the guy to convince them in any one outcome. Death, imprisonment, being healed ... or not. Though there had been no harm brought upon Yanin himself, he could feel a faint twinge of pain just looking at the poor sod's hand. HE definitely wouldn't have much use of it if it was left as-is.

There had been a fair amount of time for the bandit to volunteer as much as he was willing to based on the initial questions.
And, pray tell, what was your mission, and what drove you to attack a nearby town last night? Another pause. Farther away, Sir Freagon and Lhirinthyl had disappeared into the farmhouse. "Up to you how this goes from here. Make a good enough case and I might see if any of the healers here - once they're done all they can for the town's healer - can do anything about your hand, your commander, or anyone else here. You'd probably need to be quick and conclusive for most of them, if it isn't too late already."
It would be a waste of resources, perhaps, especially since there was no guarantee Lady Bor's or the people's will wouldn't be to execute these people, anyway, but it was an argument.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Madara

For most of the skirmish, the half-palanter was relegated to the position of an observer, eyes and ears tracking the motion and - as one was wont to do if one had spent long enough being in a more hands-on medical field of expertise - idly analyzing the mechanism and severity of each and every injury sustained in the conflict. The unaffiliated sometimes found it a bit morbid - well, at least the humans did; palanters were more likely to find it ... quaint, one might say.
Punctured lung - not very lethal without an infection setting in unless there was blood or air escaping to the chest cavity and compressing the heart. Intestinal injuries? Usually a slow and gradual, messy death unless one of the few main lood vessels in the area was involved. Piercing thigh injury could go either way. Either fairly survivable or - oh, it was the version with massive bleeding. Multiple fairly imminently lethal throat injuries - about half of which from Freagon, who was more just executing already-disabled targets rather than fighting...
All-in-all, it was a fairly speedy affair. Between arrows, bolts, blades and magic, it was but a few minutes until every bandit she could see was either dead or quite severely incapacitated - by her count, only three remained with the human knight more or less dragging one last remaining bandit out of the barn, to join the one with a punctured lung that had been among the first to be injured (and another who was preoccupied clutching his abdomen). By the manner Yanin seemed somewhat unconcerned with whatever was left behind in the barn, one could conclude there were no more living humans in there - not counting the human knight's very own squire.

All remaining action was concentrated by the farmhouse which Madara didn't unfortunately have a good vantage point of - she had seen Deo'Irah and Lhirinthyl vanish entirely behind the corner, followed by the older nightwalker who, it seemed, went forth to enter the building. Or not quite; there was a bang the half-palanter could hear even from her perch quite some ways off, prompting Freagon to hurriedly jump back, partway back into the surgeon-seamstress's field of vision.
She couldn't see what the human squire was doing - as far as she knew, he was still in the barn - but Yanin seemed to snap to attention, though keeping his halberd loosely pointed at the unarmed bandit he had extracted from the barn.
Faintly, just about, the half-palanter could discern the words of an unfamiliar man, proclaiming the end of fun and, oh, threatening the life of 'their healer'. So Bren was alive, then, at least for the time being. To think of it, Borstown's healer was most likely not immune to the influence of an angel of fear, was he? Seemed like a terrible oversight indeed.
But that, as they said, was a matter for later. For now, the battlefield was reasonably secure and if she yet had a role to fulfill here and now, it was likely to become actual very soon. Granted, there was one tiny little matter to take note of still - their employer, Vela Bor herself. The little old lady of Borstown did come with security detail of her own, but technically, the half-palanter had also been told to hang back with her. Which could either complicate or not complicate matters.
On one hand, things could yet get unpleasantly messy for the penin to witness, on the other, it was better to be ready as soon as the fighters were done doing their thing, and there was not much left to see here. Besides, Lady Bor could see as easily as Madara did that the threat other than the roaring man was as good as neutralized, and from what little she had seen about her personality back at the manor, she was absolutely the kind to go forth as soon as possible when the lives of her subjects were concerned.
The baroness hadn't exactly waited for any of the fighters to declare the manor safe before she entered and rushed upstairs, after all.

She paused for a brief moment - no, there was no feasible way for even her fairly keen hearing to distinguish what, if anything, the two deigan and nightwalker responded, especially not over the rustling of leaves and other foresty ambiance.
"I would appear it's now pertinent to relocate," Madara noted - just about loudly enough for the penin to hear in the next tree over, and with that, she dropped to the ground, with nearly the same ease she had displayed climbing it. Graceful landings were a bit tricky in a tunic, but could be worse.
She could hear the roaring man continue with his demands as she neared Yanin's position (about thirty meters, he had said; it was safe enough to assume wherever he was, was reasonably safe position. Good enough to have an overview - though not soon enough to have any means of giving input on their plans in this hostage situation, if they even had ones.
Lhirinthil opted for lighting of all things, relieving the bandit's brain of its duties and letting the current operate the man's muscles in tearing their subject's throat open.
Madara didn't quite wince; the palanteran expression of displeasure tended towards a bare-fanged rasp, and it was a faint version of that which momentarily marred her countenance. That was ... annoying. Not overly likely to be lethal with the three of them there, but nevertheless quite tedious to properly fix. She didn't see clearly enough from her position, but she wouldn't have been overly surprised if it required some opening up again to fully undo ... magical healing could be very blunt, binding together whatever came in contact, much like a mangled wound left to heal on its own over time.
Vela Bor hadn't explicitly stated she preferred as little additional harm to Bren as possible, but those things generally went without saying. It wasn't a good look for them, least for the ones directly responsible for the mess.

In any case, the brute was very definitely dead, and whoever was left indoors, their fate in the middle of being discussed, was probably firmly under the watchful eyes of both Freagon and Lhirinthyl. The swaigh was hardly needed for longer, was it?
"Deo'Irah? Would you mind?" Surely, the deigan might have noticed that other action had functionally ceased and they had a bit of an audience now, albeit one that kept its distance.

Sir Yanin Glade

The last bandit was one of the apparently younger ones, wearing mail and still a couple pieces hardened leather on his right hand and arm - though neither the shortsword he had managed to draw nor the leather vambrace and gauntlet had managed to save the integrity of his right hand, nearly split in two.
Yanin had pinned him even after mangling his dominant hand and made him discard anything even remotely harmful - belt, dagger, pieces of armor that were easy enough to remove, even boots. He was now glaring at the human knight from where he had been rather unceremoniously dropped, holding his trembling injured right hand to his chest. The guy had been the last man standing on his side, and had hence received the rather dubious honour of being the only one who was still reasonably able to speak. The others were all too injured or, overwhelmingly, too dead.

"Was that anyone important?" the Viper asked when Sir Freagon impaled the brute, sounding perhaps even more detached than usual. Most of his attention was on keeping track of anything and everything, rendering the usually expressionless man even more so.
From observing the killing field, to trying to figure out who those bandits were, to trying to figure out a way for Deo'Iran, Freagon and Kinder have a little meeting bar most of the people here before Kinder's time for visiting this plane expired.
His group - and the other - were all alive and did not appear to be grievously injured, which was well enough, even though the hostage situation could have gone better. For the time being, Yanin opted to simply not think about the undue suffering inflicted on Borstown's healer. There was not much he could do about the limp body lying by the farmhouse's door.

"These people don't work entirely on their own," he raised his voice to remind the others once they began to discuss whether or not to execute the remaining incapacitated bandits on the spot. "It's yet uncertain how much any of them know. Past that, it's Lady Bor's prerogative to decide what to do with them."
Even if neither he nor Irah - nor anyone else here - had no qualms about playing judge and executioner, at the end of the day, not only was he a knight and a Fadewatcher, they were also presently directly employed by someone who was, for better or worse, a higher instance of local law.
At least some of them ought to uphold proper procedure and whatever semblance of justice the world had left. Even if something deep within insisted that some of these people might already know enough to become a threat in the future.

But once they started taking out anyone who might be a problem ... well, his father might approve, which was enough to reinforce it was a rotten tactic. A world for those who could get away with things, a world of the strongest and most cunning's right.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

Quintin confirmed that a patrol consisting of two individuals should be manageable. The human knight didn't entirely miss the ranger looking at Jaelnec and Jordan in turn as he mentioned three could be a problem.
"He could, but I reckon you two are best suited." He had Freagon's word that 'the boy' could fight, but nothing about whether he could be covert, so he skipped having an opinion on Jaelnec's suitability. "Best to not bring more people than needed. Less chance of alerting the patrol prematurely. We'll be ready to intervene if need be." By arrow and bolt, or by sending someone third. He guessed they'd be improvising by that point.
Quintin, Jaelnec and Nabi made their preparations; Lady Bor and Madara took position up in a tree each. Kinder specified that it'd probably be able to move around for fifteen, twenty minutes, and be ... present, he guessed, for up to an hour. "Not that long, then. May this endeavor be swift, then, and no more inconvenient to you to wait than need be." He knew not that much about divines outside of what Dei'iel had to say about handling them. Ghouls and wraiths didn't seem in pain or discomforted, but he was also bad at reading people, let alone mobile bunches of sticks with glowing dots for eyes. As a human, inhabiting a form that didn't belong to you seemed strange. Wrong.

Time was running out. An hourglass upon hourglass upon hourglass, each running dry at one's own rate.

Quietly, Yanin took position amid trees, glaive set aside, bow and one of the arrows held between his fingers. For the time being, he stuck with the bodkins rather than the broadheads. Not quite as lethal, but better able to pierce armor. There was a fair chance he'd end up using both; there were only so many of each.
Quintin and Nabi went ahead, Jordan and the nightwalker stayed to the side, the former likewise preparing to shoot if need be, crossbow armed with a bolt, but for now still lowered. For now, they watched.
Two people. Not a challenge. The patrol didn't stand a chance. Less than quarter of a moment, and it was over; Quentin motiobned them forward, and they advanced, this time taking position six, five dozen meters from the barn, about as close as they could get before the trees gave way fully.
"Let Caleb know we're ready," the human knight quietly noted to Kinder. "He can block the further barn door and tell the others to advance."

Find a target, preferably one with a ranged weapon further from where Deo'Irah's group would be emerging. Raise the bow, ready to draw, but wait. Not yet.
A singular bandit detached from the rest, wandering closer to them, not quite alert until he spotted the dead patrol. He didn't have the time to alert anyone, Lady Bor took care of that.
Now.
One of the bandits shouted. Another jumped up to go for a bow of his own, looking at the forest, but not quite in the direction of any of them. Maybe a good fifteen degrees off of Lady Bor's position, side towards Yanin. This one was wearing mostly mail; maybe seventy meters away. His bow was good for about a hundred and fifty, and the guy fumbled a moment too long, not moving. A bodkin arrow pierced deep between his ribs.
Didn't go down immediately, but he paused and let his weapon slip, knocked breathless, reaching for the arrow before trying to draw a breath again. And immediately started coughing. Another, though unfortunately one who only seemed to have a spear and hence was not a likely immediate threat to the other half of their party, took a crossbow bolt to his abdomen.
Still a threat, but not the most imminent one. It took half a dozen seconds for the human knight to prepare another arrow. It would take maybe twice as long for Joran to manage to rearm his weapon, and the action was somewhat more conspicious. More bandits were now emerging to join the few that had been dallying outside. Another received an arrow in his upper thigh, which was technically nearly half a meter off where Yanin had been aiming, but for hitting a running target fifty meters off, it was well enough.
They didn't immediately seem to be in hurry to take cover, perhaps not orienting in what was attacking them, perhaps distracted by the other team's advance. They had, after all, the entire broad arc of the forest's edge and Caleb's position to contend with. Yanin's instructions to his side had been clear enough - whoever might take aim at them from afar took priority. And they were two crossbows and three bows strong. He and Jordan were not the only ones.
Some of the bandits were getting close now. For now, he decided to take a risk - none of those nearly upon them were ranged. Some of those back there were. The human knight seemed alert and focused, and little else. There was none of the casual indifference Sir Freagon seemed to display, rather, it was all a grim job, all calculated, all ready.
Yanin's third arrow practically impaled a guy's neck. That one didn't get far.

Jaelnec didn't quite wait until that moment, but rather took it upon himself to engage the nearest - or rather, the nearest three bandits. Jordan's crossbow, now armed again, briefly tracked the other two, but as quickly as the first one was dispatched, moved on to the ones further away.
It would appear that Sir Freagon had fairly high standards for "can fight", even if his newly appointed squire was more of a pusher than a tactician. Not necessarily a bad thing, just riskier.
The fourth arrow cut through a shoulder - perhaps an upper arm. If it didn't nick an artery, then it'd be more of an annoyance than immediately disabling in a survival situation. A crossbow bolt followed but a second later, embedding itself in the left lung, if not heart. Well, that worked.

And with Jaelnec perhaps inadvertently leading the charge by mirroring the other team, they were running out of this stage; it was time to discard the bow and finish this.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Madara

Madara didn't seem to have much to contribute to the ongoing discussion, letting the more martially inclined among them to sort out their own business in absence of any apparent-to-even-her glaring flaws in need of correcting in their plans. Gods' forbid she overstepped her boundaries meddling in the fighters' affairs trying to micromanage what these people, quite literally, did for a living. Just the same, she would have been quite bemused indeed if the same people tried to teach her how to reconnect tendons. Wouldn't that be a treat to hear...
Only Yanin and Vela seemed to, albeit briefly, take evident interest in her presence. The half-palanter's right eyebrow arched in anticipation of an inquiry that never arrived upon Lady Bor's inspection of her. Admittedly, she didn't know the baroness well enough to take a stab at what she was thinking, and the exoskeleton made it harder to read expressions past the keen once-over of the penin's eyes. Was it wondering what her purpose was here? Surely, there could be no questioning her role back at the guardhouse. Medical supplies didn't come cheap for one, even if she had no intention of requesting payment from the poor sods annihilated by the very bandits they were now after.

"I believe I was instructed to stay back with you till the situation calls for my intervention," the woman in green noted, in a tone oddly reminiscent of someone listing the ingredients of a blend of tea, "I am a surgeon, perhaps a negotiator, not a soldier. I'll fight only when I see no better option, be it like my mother's kind, or something a bit more improvised." The pointed nail of a slender finger tapped not the dagger by her side, but one of the vials she had pointed out earlier, back at the guardhouse.
Not a fighter, yes, but not entirely defenseless, either.

People were moving in position. Lady Bor, for one, scaled a tree with athleticism not at all suitable for someone purporting to retire for good. But, she guessed, they did tell people to quit while they were still ahead. Avoid a disgraceful end, perhaps.
Perching in a tree might make relocating slightly less subtle, but also being discovered in the first place a lot less likely. And ambushes, if one such really ended up being necessary? A lot easier to execute. Hmh. Could as well.
The half-palanter's ascent of a different, but close by tree was seemingly just as effortless, but a lot less acrobatic and more, somehow, mundane. It was almost as if she had simply opted to walk up a tree trunk at a brisk pace like one might hurry up a set of steep stairs, only incidentally touching a hand to the gnarled bark along the way before settling on a thicker limb at appropriate height.
The green tunic blended with the foliage a good seven meters up quite nicely, if she were to say so herself. The view was good, too.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The human knight didn't seem to outwardly react in either direction when the people gathered around offered their corrections. Why would he? He had no reason to suspect their information wasn't more accurate than his in that particular matter. Warfare didn't lend to pettiness and arbitrary wastes of time. So he watched and listened.
If only they could afford to choose the means... A number of people would die, and some of them would die locked in nightmares within their own minds, unable to even twitch in preparation of defending themselves. Not a nice way to go, if there even was such a thing.

The summoning of the iriao was markedly uneventful, almost. There was a lifeless husk, a faint flash, and then it was animate, if a bit confused by its circumstances.
"I reckon we can quietly take out the first patrol that comes along after Caleb has reported back. It should give us a couple of minutes for us to get in position to provide cover, and you can go ahead to rescue the town's healer. We'll take the other building, if occupied, once you have breached." It was more of a reiteration if anything. Better if everyone knew what they were doing even if hit over the head with a club, lest mistakes were made.
Barring any more interjections, it was time.
"Let's go."
There would only be so many minutes before Caleb can summon the swaigh; they'd need to be a good couple dozen meters away before then. All of the lot who weren't already immune.
"Angels of fear aren't exactly subtle either. Anyone left standing will know something is up." It wasn't even guaranteed to be a silent affair, was it?
Did he have an alternative that had at least as good of a chance of leaving them all and the town healer alive and preferably uninjured? No. And Lady Bor seemed to have consented to this option. So, for now, it would have to be let go.
Somewhere a few dozen meters away, just about visible between the trees, Caleb was presumably getting ready to summon the divine in question.

"Quintin, Nabi - do you figure you'd be able to go ahead and quietly take out a patrol group of two or three individuals?" The two looked subtler than the rest. The remainder of them would be waiting a short distance away, ready to intervene if things went awry. If they went well? That's already two or three less people they had to worry about later. "Those with ranged weapons can then provide cover for the other group. Can't imagine Sir Freagon or the two deigan would have any trouble with anyone in melee range even if someone were immune to the angel. Focus on anyone who might have ranged weapons. And no matter what, stay at least thirty meters away from Deo'Irah until the swaigh has been confirmed dismissed." That was one door and the people out in the open. Caleb would presumably be able to handle the other door.
"Nabi - you can see through your own darkness, can you not? And can you shroud only the back half of a room, and dismiss the cover at will, such as to prevent anyone at the back end of the room from taking shots at us? I'll lead the breach into the building." He was, quite probably, the strongest, and definitely the most armored. "Nabi and Jordan, take the right; Quintin, Jaelnec, take the left. If any of them can be incapacitated or surrenders, let them, just make sure they don't try anything. I have questions." And still, he didn't fancy himself an executioner.
"And, Kinder, I believe Deo'Irah called you? How long would you estimate this form you're in would last? I believe there'll be yet something to discuss after we're done here."

“The thalk reports that they are in position and there are thirty-three sapients, and the healer seems to be in the farmstead with six others. None of the others feel like mages.”
"The barn it is, then."
"And this time it's just regular humans, not mages or divines," Jordan added, glancing at Nabi.
"So it would appear. If there are no last questions, Nabi, Quintin, proceed."

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

It didn't take too long for Lady Bor and Quintin to gather their equipment and bearings after he had made his way over to the manor, thankfully. They had been delayed long enough.

Unlike the nightwalkers, fallen angel and deigan, the humans traveled in near-silence, with Quintin showing the way. The dark one appeared similar. Wary, watchful. Better suited for stalking - her and Quintin both - than himself or Jordan in their current attire, all things considered. Being careful only went so far for keeping two meters of steel subtle. Quieter than could be expected, but even so, it was better to dedicate any attention to noticing any adversity before it noticed you.
Full attention. Sight, sound, even vibrations in the ground and smells carried by the wind... For this reason alone, smoking, too, had always bothered him. If you caught a whiff of cigarette smoke in the forest ... well, you knew it wasn't the bloody sparrows lighting up. And humans didn't exactly have the best noses around. Melenians, palanters, hounds...
He didn't actually know how well the dark ones' noses compared to humans', now that he was paying attention.

The point of no return grew near. There was only so much planning you could do with so many unknowns, as he had noted back in the guardhouse - and every passing turn, more pieces kept added. He and several others had urged for silence; quiet preparations ensued. Caleb had to go wait ahead, but it also could not go ahead before both angels were summoned ... and the second angel necessitated that the groups split into the sensitive and insensitive... So that was it. All that was left to do was to hope the plan worked and all these people who had never met before this day managed to coordinate.
It was funny, actually. Chess was touted as the tactician's game, yet it was simpler than even a very basic mission involving less than a dozen people. Yanin had never bothered with chess enough to be actually outstanding with it, but for the most part, you could just memorize which piece did what and you were already set for doing well. In real life, there were no grids, no reasonable amount of time to think between every move, success ran in fractions not binaries, and in the end, people did whatever the fuck they felt like doing, anyway.
You could only hope they respected you enough to listen, be it for fear, admiration or ... trust in your judgement was probably closest descriptor. Not just because they liked you, or anticipated repercussions for not taking orders, but because they believed it was indeed the correct thing to do.

Caleb will be moving ahead and informing Nabi and Deo'Irah what it sensed. Either Weriz or Kinder would be able to reach the thalk from their respective sides to inform the fallen angel they were moving, so it would make most sense for those to be divided ... but also for Kinder to be wherever Bren would be. It might need to move quickly. Fifty meters was more than the diameter of what the swaigh could cover in its aura...
Almost thoughtfully, the human knight prepared his bow, moving the string to firing position and testing the tension. Jordan, himself, Lady Bor, Nabi, Quintin; fair bit of ranged cover.
"That's twenty, thirty meters for the aura? Close enough to provide ranged cover or give a sign. I assume all angels can communicate to one another, and Caleb could inform Nabi on what can be magically sensed. Madara, stay with Lady Bor; the rest of my group should accompany us to the second building once Deo'Irah's group has breached their building - unless the second one is empty." Best to keep at least one healer with each division - not counting Caleb. Besides, the surgeon wasn't entirely defenseless. That left himself, Quintin, Jordan, Nabi and the younger nightwalker, Jaelnec, entering the second structure.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

Fifteen years with Sir Freagon, and another ten, that would make Jaelnec twenty, fifth- ... twenty-five, then? Implicitly, the nightwalker had also said that he didn't consider a friend or acquaintance, after having earlier stated that he was - kind of - his only (adopted) family. Which was quite the exact opposite for him and Sir Yanin - he definitely didn't consider the human knight family, but a friend in addition to an employer? Yeah, probably. Not always the nicest one, but a dependable one. And, going by his earlier musings about the others all being probably just circumstantial acquaintances, maybe even his only actual friend.
Between dead parents and Sir Freagon as a surrogate father, his own dead father and kind of relentless mother (she's only trying to take of my younger siblings in any way she can, even if it doesn't make much sense), and Sir Yanin's tyrant of a father and mellowest of mothers... They really did all have some kind of family problems, didn't they?

As if it wasn't a sobering enough line of thought on its own, Jaelnec - ever so briefly - touched upon Sir Freagon's less favorable personality traits.
"That bad, huh?" Jordan commented in a regretful tone, quietly enough that only Jaelnec could possibly hear, though he did briefly glance at the two knights. The older nightwalker's face was stone cold, though briefly, he let out a bark of laughter at something Sir Yanin had said, only to almost immediately return to grim. "Can't imagine he could be worse than Sir Yanin's own father, though. The best you could hope with Sir Tareon Glade was that he kind of just forgot he signed off on your employment in the first place. The lady of the house handled the salaries and the other little upkeep things so it's not like you'd be not paid if he did or anything. I genuinely don't want to know what that man would be like if he didn't need to worry about his social status or anything."

Jordan didn't envy the servants in the mansion. Having to occasionally hand over the reins of one of Sir Tareon's personal horses was quite enough. The head of the Glades didn't really do anything, but you kind of just knew you were naught but a tool, good for as long as you were useful. Insignificant, except if you knew something you shouldn't.
Oh, you died because a horse kicked you in the head? Such dreadful news. Time to have someone find another stable boy and contemplate if compensating your parents your three months' pay would be worth the social favour it would incur. Make no mistake - even at peacetime, Sir Tareon was still a tactician, and if appearing generous was somehow beneficial, he'd still do it. Didn't mean he cared. Or that annoying people wouldn't meet unfortunate, but entirely logical ends. Sometimes the victims were even people who had once been handsomely compensated themselves. Not that you'd ever suspect anything if you weren't Sir Yanin and hadn't been looking into it for a dozen years of your otherwise still young life.
The Viper himself had been fairly certain no one was definite on what exactly the old warlord had arranged outside of battlegrounds, not even the closest accomplices. The question, then, was only who would be too careless next.

Sir Tareon Glade was very different from Baroness Bor.

"Stories were ... much nicer when they were just stories. Y'know, fun and adventures and not 'weed the cabbages, would you' for the third time this month," Jordan mused, "But there's purpose now, and the ability to change at least some lives." Sir Yanin had meanwhile left towards Bor Manor. Probably meant it wouldn't be long now. "And yes, there's still hope to save someone today."

Sir Yanin Glade

"Had you asked me during any other part of my life..." the old knight had said. It had been different before, then. Anyone's guess what it entailed at this time.
Hope was a strange thing. None of the things Freagon actually described, in themselves, were hope - they were definite actions to improve the world. Yanin was never quite certain if hope itself weren't just something you had when there was nothing else left. Hoping, because there was nothing you could do. Beat despairing, he supposed, but for him, hope had been inextricably bound to powerlessness the same. There two conceivable worlds without hope - one which had fallen, and one that didn't need it.
He had decided to not give up on the world yet. But ... he didn't really know how he felt about it. It was just a decision.
"I see," had been his only parting words before he made his way over to Bor Manor looking to see how the preparations fared on their end. There were probably people on cleanup duty, too, by now.
"We are ready to move," he stated, simply, if he found either Quintin or Lady Bor herself on the premises. The implications should be clear.
Caleb would need time to accumulate its power. They could do their waiting on site, not just for the benefit of the fallen angel's powers, but there they could also interfere immediately, should the circumstances turn dire sooner than expected.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Jordan Forthey

Forget to appreciate having people around he could call friends?
"I ... don't think you can really forget something like that, can you? Well, I don't think most people can, anyway." The ones who didn't most likely didn't see them as friends to begin with. "Sometimes I wonder, though, how much most of them were really friends as much as they were just there and we got along. Between my family, the Glades' estate and most recently the Fadewatchers - and the year in between that was mostly just Sir Yanin, I guess -, it almost feels like I've had three or four completely different lives. Every time I move location, everyone just seems to get cut off. I can write, sort of, but even so..." The human squire shrugged.
It held true in reverse, too, for the most part. If someone left service, it was more than very likely that if at all, then he heard back from them maybe once, twice or thrice, but no more. It was never the same as actually sitting down with someone, talking, laughing, maybe having a pint of ale or a game of dice. Not even with the person who had, for a time, been his girlfriend.
It seemed ironic, then, that his master of all people seemed to be able to keep up contact by written word more reliably than Jordan himself. He hadn't looked, but he suspected it was mostly his more trustworthy siblings. He did notice, though, that none of the letters Sir Yanin received seemed to stick around for any amount of time. The only logical conclusion was that the knight destroyed them all shortly after reading, no exceptions. There weren't exactly many places he could hide them, especially on the move, and with Jordan having to look for something or another among his master's belongings more often than not. The man seemed to remember exactly where he had put something, but wasn't overly organized otherwise.

"Aside of my mother, I guess Sir Yanin has been around the longest," because I decided to stick myself with him, "So much so that feel I've begun to forget how it is to work with people who aren't Sir Yanin or other people who are used to working with Sir Yanin. He is certainly -" fanatical, some said "- dedicated, to say the least, and ... very practical. I guess they might be not that different in that regard. If he's not out on a mission, he's either training or researching. Mostly training."
Though for all that Jordan knew, this and being an accomplished fighter and knight could also be where the similarities ended. For a while, he had genuinely felt that Jaelnec was bloody terrified of Sir Freagon. And, while, yes, Sir Yanin was intimidating and blunt, Jaelnec had also been traveling with Sir Freagon for nearly twice as long as Jordan had been around Sir Yanin, and that ought to have been more than enough time to ... well, if there was no reason to be afraid of the older nightwalker, his page would have figured it out a long time ago.
Sir Yanin could kill you, and tended to look at you as if he wasn't entirely sure why you even existed (that was, unfortunately, just his default expression), but he was by no means a violent person unless you absolutely deserved it. Jordan wasn't even sure he could call him impatient as much as ... restless, he guessed.
"If you need something, you can feel to ask him - or me -, though. I can't guarantee he'll agree to anything, but he'll at least consider it." Jordan lowered his voice for the next sentence. "I mean, he'll probably look annoyed, but that's kind of just how he always looks." With the next sentence, Jordan's voice returned to normal volume, but the tone had shifted almost ... sad?
"Deciding that the lot is taking too long wouldn't be entirely out of character, either, mostly because there is a prisoner. To reduce the odds of being, y'know, late. That has been my least favourite part of the job ... the fact that Fadewatchers are often called in after the fact. So the past two years has been a lot more ... facing the direct consequences and less tracking down stories."
Not even so much the dead as the living. They ... were mostly for him to deal with while his master went around turning over every misplaced rock and splinter.

Sir Yanin Glade

Freagon seemed unsure why people would want to replicate his fate ... up until fairly recently, when fate had another cruel twist in store. Yanin technically knew very little of the man, past the sparse words of his deeds and the quite far-fetched tales he was telling now. This far, they held up. An entity resurrected Freagon at great cost to itself. But why? What did he get in turn?
"Not people like I, or most. Desperate people with unfinished business." The human knight noted, still quietly. There were certainly individuals that made do with less. Some of them were even comparatively sane still. "Beats being a walking carrion, more so without the magical energy to back it up."
Freagon didn't seem to be actively using magic - though art of the warden, or perhaps something similar to it functionally lost to time with the first extinction of the Knighthood of the Will, could perhaps be used subtly enough to not be immediately apparent by observation alone. Could explain the claims of superhuman ability, departed from the ways of the Wardens and merged with more conventional knightly combat.
"I don't suppose you make use of any form of magic? Or the Knighthood as a whole tended to?" It was mostly a professional curiosity. He was already on the limit of what a human could feasibly do - not because he couldn't be any faster or stronger, but because being so would rapidly break down his own body. It wasn't feasible to always have magical healing at hand, and past some point, it would come with pitfalls of its own. It wasn't perfect.

There was a pause - perhaps for Freagon to elaborate. In the end, Sir Yanin sighed. It felt almost abrupt.
"What does matter." Though he retained the low volume, it sounded sharper - in a way that might be interpreted as annoyance -, but more like a statement than a question. "The Knighthood?" Enough to go through the motions, yet not enough to have people bear witness. "Eliminating threats you happen across, for as long as you can?" One could not be everywhere, even less so indefinitely. It could be difficult enough keeping just a few people comparatively safe. And that was before it came to actually making the correct judgements. "Sorting out whatever might have been unleashed upon the world?" By you or anyone else.
Perhaps one might even contemplate between trying to eliminate the bloody Withering itself where many millions before had failed or just ... leaving others with his unfinished business and just giving up? If even vastly more knowledgeable and arguably more powerful individuals than Yanin himself were calling it quits, then how much of his own conviction was a sheer lunacy? It would be easier, definitely, to just take the few people and withdraw. To not meddle until you could not not fight no more.
"I suspect some of it might have to wait until the prisoner situation has been dealt with." One way or another. "I suggest you talk to Deo'Irah little friend, too. I don't know you, or yet what your plan is, if you even have one, but the world is rotting. It needs all the help it can get, for as long as it can have it. I haven't quite given up on it yet." Have you?
More of the Viper's attention had shifted to Sir Freagon, the weight of the halberd subtly shifted, anticipating. Answer, reaction. Ultimately, Freagon's time was not out not today, not tomorrow, though delaying any uncomfortable discussions might cost him days, or a week. Bren's time was less determinate.
Barring any reaction that required immediate response, priorities favoured the town healer. Freagon's decisions were ultimately up to Freagon, and there was not much Yanin could about it if the man was not willing. "It's taking too long. We should find our employer." Up to Freagon if he wanted to come along or keep watching their squires discuss miscellaneous things.

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

There was a much longer pause before Freagon replied, markedly in a significantly lowered voice. Quiet enough to prevent their respective squires, any random passerby, or those concealed within the guardhouse to overhear.
Yet again, the older nightwalker reiterated, but the next two sentences finally broke mold. The timing didn't fit together because Freagon himself was temporally displaced. He had died, to return more than a century later. A borderline absurd statement to make.
For now, Yanin was going to continue on the presumtion that the claims, no matter how ludicrous - or perhaps because they were ludicrous - were more likely to be accurate than not. It would have been all too easy to make up a conceivable lie - a couple or two remained, went to live in Golerin for a generation and a half, didn't draw too much attention to themselves. Something like that. Still possible to confirm true or false, but more tedious - too much so for most.
To live again? Not immortality, not godhood, but enough to be coveted by many regardless. There were enough stubborn, and desperate people in the world.

"You suspect if others were to find out, they'd want the same for themselves, no matter the cost?" The human had likewise lowered his voice, though his tone changed surprisingly little. There was barely enough intonation to mark the sentence as a question rather than a statement.
Yanin didn't particularly care to find out the exact procession of events leading up to the resurrection. Didn't sound like anything Freagon had arranged in advance, and there was at least a considerable chance that it wasn't an overly pleasant affair. Outright resurrections weren't common enough to be just granted as a rare favour (as oxymoronic as it might sound), even to legendary individuals, let alone a century or more after their presumed death. Someone, somewhere, had had something desperately they wanted to do. Someone exceptionally powerful, perhaps even a full deity. And it had to have been something the entity just couldn't do itself.
"Couldn't have come cheap. Something extraordinary." Better not be a future problem for them to resolve. Fifty years was a long time; one could at least hope.

It was almost surprising, then, that the reason for time running out - at least seemingly, unless Freagon was somehow singlehandedly responsible for one of the worst disasters to befall upon Rodoria and surrounding areas in recent times - was unrelated to his reported resurrection. And perhaps ironic - that the only man Yanin had met who claimed to have returned from dead, and quite possibly the single most accomplished fighter to boot, was now plagued by the same malady that had already taken nearly third of the country.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Soon. A week, or thereabouts. As far as he was aware, there was no way to as much as stop the progression. Maybe just slow it down some, via divine healing. Deo'Irah's angelic friend would probably offer to try and help. Probably best to start sooner rather than later if he would agree to that help. And in the end, either divine taint or the plague itself would still claim him. For all intents and purposes, Freagon was a dead man walking - literally and figuratively, in more ways than one. Pity.
What's your plan? Pawn your newly-promoted quire off to the first ragtag group - if that - adventurers you find, and otherwise just ignore it until you keel over? To try and live as long and do as much as you can? To do what millions couldn't, having already undied once?
"I see." This time, there had been a longer pause before Yanin replied. For once, his tone was more grim than usual. "Reckon you have more than one decision you can't delay, then."

Jordan Forthey

The nightwalker assured him it was all right, though he suspected it was one of those 'you couldn't have known' or 'it has been a long time and I have come to accept it' all rights, not really ... something that didn't hurt to bring up.
Apologizing again would probably make things a touch more awkward, so he opted against it. (He seemed to be doing a lot of apologizing today, didn't he? Well, he had expected a rather peaceful day of mostly travel, he guessed...)
"Sir Freagon as only family?" That sounded ... slightly disconcerting, not that there weren't many who wouldn't say the same for his own choice of liege. Jordan glanced at the two knights stood a handful of meters away, seemingly discussing something quietly. It appeared to involve Sir Freagon glaring daggers at Sir Yanin. Beter to leave them at whatever they were doing.
"The Galeids naturally mostly just ordered me around, if they paid any attention to me at all - aside of Sir Yanin's middle sister and his youngest brother, who mostly just wanted to always see the animals. And Sir Jeran, sometimes, not that he ever had much time to spare. So my friends were mostly just other hired help." And girlfriend, for about a year and half... "Sir-to-be Yanin was probably around the most, since he spent a lot of time practicing, but, frankly, I kind of just considered him intimidating for the first few years, nearly as much so as his father and ... the late Sir Manin, I suppose. It took some convincing from Lady Alaisi's part to convince me Sir Yanin is actually okay to ask things from, even if he doesn't look like it."

The Prophecy - Dreams of Destiny

Sir Yanin Glade

The older nightwalker simply reiterated that he was a Knight of the Will, and the knighthood was not extinct because he was there. That was not what Yanin was asking; he had already figured Freagon was intent on remaining steadfast on as much.
Instead of verbally elaborating in detail, the human knight simply shook his head, once, slowly, and asked again: "How are you here?"

If someone were to observe Yanin very keenly at that moment, they might have noticed that he ever so slightly lifted - just enough to clear gravel - and shifted the balance of his halberd when Freagon reacted to something, only very slowly easing it back down after nothing further had happened. (Jordan himself, being mostly focused on Jaelnec, hadn't spotted Freagon's reaction.)

'Soon' was imprecise. Perhaps the older nightwalker was being obtuse, perhaps he genuinely did not know. "Soon enough that it couldn't wait till the evening." One might expect such a rushed action before a battle one was not expecting to survive. There were plenty of records of people doing just that, granting titles effectively in advance just so their apprentices or servants would have one before they ultimately perished - or, in a stroke of extreme yet tilted luck, the subordinate lived, but the master died. It wasn't it. Not quite. "And it isn't the bandits in particular."
Freagon could realistically dispatch the bandits entirely by himself, with comparatively little risk to his own person. The man had implicitly confirmed as much himself. Not today. Not tomorrow. Any direct connection between Freagon and the bandits seemed far-fetched at this point. They were, for the most part, incidental.
Time is running out. Before what exactly happened? It isn't just the two of us anymore. So who were the others? The two deigan? The half-palanter? Lady Bor and her little town? Him and his squire? "If your understanding of the future pertains us or those people in meaningful way, I'd rather hear everything sooner rather than later. Feels like we might have to deal with the consequences, and I don't particularly like surprises."