For Want of a Mourner

The gray of the day seems like it has slipped into the halls of the Temple of Vardama. Though, that's a rather simple thing to say given that the temple is always gray inside. Yet it's not just the color, there's a general sense of ordinariness, of tiredness and calm that the gray day has let slip into the halls of the temple.

One of the temple's more advanced priests walks beside another of their order who is perhaps by some more immediately recognizable. He's a stately man with gray hair touched with white at the edges, and he talks quietly to the woman at his side as they walk through the hall. "It's a strange thing, but you are most certainly not infected with the usual form of lycanthropy. Instead you seem as if you have been... made one with the wolf. You may find that your instincts are heightened, your emotions quicker to come to you." He keeps his voice very low so as to not be overheard, but he gets a few glances just the same. The word 'lycanthrope' is one that is hard to ignore. Particularly in recent months.

There's two half-elves that stroll into the halls of the Temple of Vardama, although their strides considerably slow as they enter the building. Cor'lana looks around, her arm wrapped around Telamon's as she holds a bundle of lavender in her hands, tied neatly together with a little violet ribbon. "I've never been here before," she quietly comments to her betrothed. "I... didn't think it'd be this gray."

Telamon nods solemnly to Cor'lana, as the two walk arm in arm. "It's... a somber place. And the priesthood of Vardama's had some rough times." He gives her a squeeze, before looking around to see if he can spot Verna. It doesn't help that just about everyone here is dressed about the same anyways. "Maybe we should ask for directions?" he muses softly.

Verna, perhaps more than others, adds to the monochrome drab of the Hall via her attire, complexion, and features. Unlike most other Mourners present, her hood is doffed, perhaps signifying her current role more as client than professional. Her frown is more creased than normal as she listens. "I understand the general concept, if not the fine specifics. I expect that more will be discerned, in time. Until then, it may be best that my duties here be limited and monitored, at the least."

When Silmeria is done with her duties in the city at large, she often likes to make herself useful at the Temple, sweeping floors. It's important, she feels, to keep the place from looking even the barest fraction as dull and dingy as the emotions of most of its supplicants. Not to mention that for some, seeing a servant of Death in a gently cheery mood often helps blunt the edges of a Truly Bad Day. After all, if those sworn to death can smile, maybe it's not all bad...?

As the half-elves enter, the priestess in the gray cassock and silver spectacles looks up from her sweeping, and beams a smile at the couple, holding up a hand to mark that they've been seen. Her eyes dart to Verna and the senior priest, but she seems to decline to interrupt their conversation just now.

"Hello!" she chirps as she closes to quiet speaking distance. "I'm Silmeria, Speaker for the Dead. How can I be of service?" Her broom comes to rest against her shoulder, head tilting to one side in genuine curiosity.

"You are wise Verna." Offers the man to her, nodding to her words and coming to a stop. He seems aware of the fact that there are others in the temple and has made a point to avoid them. "Yet we have some troubling concerns in the temple which you should know of. People losing time. People going missing at odd points. We need every hand we can get at this point. Particularly with all the deaths that have arisen of late. The wights, the werewolves. It's a mess."

Three men come in behind Telamon and Cor'lana, pausing politely so as to not step into the half-elves. They look around a bit, and when Silmeria offers her greeting one of the men speaks up. "We're looking for the Mourner."

Cor'lana looks up at Telamon, then at Silmeria, and then to the men that are behind them. She squints at them, violet eyes inspecting them briefly. "Get in line," she quietly murmurs. <Sylvan>

"We're here to see Verna," she says, looking over to Silmeria. "We're not with them, though?"

Telamon turns his gaze on the trio as well, sweeping over them dispassionately, before turning back to Silmeria. "We've met, actually," he says. "The sewers. Milksop, and the demon-trolls. It's good to see you again." He smiles broadly at Silmeria, and nods in agreement with Cor'lana. "As my lady notes, we are here to speak with Verna. Nothing too serious, though. A social call, if you will."

Verna nods to the elder. "Indeed. Duties are priority, of course, though I shall take all reasonable precautions." The news of internal events does not help her frown at all; in fact it shifts to scowl. "The incidents should be investigated, though lack of personnel only compounds the issue." She looks about at the other Mourners tending to duties and guests, the guests, themselves, and then notices several familiar among them. "On the matter of precautions, if you would excuse me, Mourner." She lifts a hand in greeting or call to Telamon and Lana as she awaits release before moving to approach the pair

"Ah! Yes I remember, it's good to see you again too, ser!" Silmeria says, the wattage on her expression dialing up a tad. "Verna seems to be in conference with her senior just this moment, but if you wait over there," she gestures to a bench that will likely be in Verna's field of vision unless she leaves the room or turns around entirely, "I'm sure she'll be right with you the moment she's done."

Turning to the new petitioners, there's a subtle shift in her smile that makes it feel a bit more 'customer service face.' "I'm sorry, but you'll have to be more specific, sers? Only there's at least two hundred Mourners in the temple at any given moment, myself included. Were you looking for one in particular?"

The man nods once again. "As you will. I will check on Auranar." He says kindly, and turns toward the more private rooms and leaving Verna to be alone.

The three men eye Cor'lana and Telamon respectively, but seem satisfied when Silmeria suggests that they go sit down. The one in the middle speaks up again, looking around the room and then back to her smartly. "Two hundred? Which one is known as 'Mourner'? Your most senior perhaps?"

One of his buddies nudges his arm and motions to Silmeria. "Maybe it's her."

This makes the man in the middle look at Silmeria more sharply. He leans in and... sniffs at her. "I don't think so. She doesn't look like someone who is called 'Mourner'."

GAME: Telamon rolls sense motive+3: (13)+13+3: 29
GAME: Silmeria rolls sense motive: (4)+15: 19

Cor'lana slowly, slowly turns to look at the men again. Brow raised, squinting again. "Did... you all just come off a night of drinking?" she asks. "Mourner's not a name. It's an occupation. Anyone who serves as a cleric of Vardama is a Mourner."

She looks at the man who's trying to /sniff/ at Silmeria and looks concerned. "Umm. If you're looking for what smells nice, I have some lavender here. Straight from the garden, harvested this morning." She lifts her handful of lavender up a little.

Being sniffed causes Silmeria to lean back a fraction, one eyebrow rising in surprise. "I see... What I mean to say is, 'Mourner' is the title given to *any* servant of Death who has passed their acolyte's training. Such as myself. And the six to my left. And the twenty in the Archives, the fifty morticians currently on duty, the gravekeepers all around the city, and at least half of our kitchen staff. So I must insist, is there a specific Mourner you seek, and what business you have? The sooner I have this understanding," she says, a peek of the displeased-big-sister showing through in her expression and posture, "the sooner I can help you, and we can all be happy."

Telamon stares at the trio of men, his expression growing cooler by the second. Casually, he nudges Cor'lana back a step and behind him, as he murmurs in Sylvan, "Be wary. They are on a razor's edge and could lash out." Switching back to Tradespeak, he says softly, "If you've the sniffles, friend, I know a good apothecary. They specialize in all manner of herbal concoctions." He pauses, a glitter in his dark eyes. "I hear the aconite distillation is particularly popular these days."

Verna approaches to the now-turned and grown gathering. "Telamon, Cor'lana, Mourner, gentlemen. Is all well?" What she may or may not have overheard of their discussion was likely minimal.

The three men look at one another. One of them glares at Telamon, stepping forward. "What was that you little-" The man in the middle grabs his friend's arm and reels him back.

"Sorry about that. He doesn't like it when folks use words he can't understand." It's not the best apology in the world, but he gives the other man a short look that has him muttering a 'sorry' under his breath and then the man in the middle turns his attention on Silmeria. "Would you mind if we talked to you privately? It's a bit of a sensitive subject. We'd really appreciate your time." He doesn't even glance toward Verna.

"Oh, he speaks... How many different languages, now, love? Seven? Eight?" Cor'lana smirks, her eyes twinkling as she looks at Telamon.

She turns her attention back to Verna and smiles, giving her a wave. "Hey, Verna. We wanted to talk to you, too, but these guys are... Insisting on talking to someone but don't know who they're looking for?"

Silmeria's eyes dart to Telamon and back in the space of a breath; she *definitely* caught the aconite reference, and she leans on her broom, folding her hands on top and resting her chin on her fingers. "Everything is perfectly well, Mourner," Silmeria says, eyes falling on the man in the middle and not leaving. "These eager young gentlemen simply need help tracking down a particular servant, and oh! That reminds me; there was a tithe of three ~monks' hoods~ delivered a short while ago, but there was a mistake, and three of them were dyed ~red.~ Would you mind having an acolyte go around the hall here to see if anyone is willing to ~go to the cloisters~ and take care of that?"

~monkshood~ ~red~ ~go to the cloisters~ Oddly specific stresses, and if taken together, one who knows what monkshood is supposed to be for might understand that Silmeria wants the hall cleared in case of violent werewolves?

Her smile grows wide and bright, as she straightens. "Anyway! You'd like to speak in private, and I'd be *very* happy to help. Let's see... There's an empty autopsy room in the mortuary wing, as I recall... I imagine it'd save time to go there? I can have tea sent up."

Telamon rubs his chin. "Ten, actually. It's quite interesting, as some languages require a kind of mental shift -- to see things a little differently. I should probably write a paper on it and submit it to the University." His eyes meet Silmeria's, the stars in his gaze glinting. His stare flicks back to the three men, "There's nothing wrong with only holding mastery in a single language, though -- provided you're interested in using it to communicate, rather than for some other alternative. I genuinely hope that's the case here, gentlemen. I find I have little patience these days for foolishness."

Verna says, "As I wished to speak with you and Tela-" The flash of aggression from the man, even reined in, draws a glare from Verna, her scowl open enough to briefly show teeth. It relents slightly with Silmeria's words. "Of course. The cloisters will be checked. Concerning tinctures, I recently acquired some, my self, in fact." One hand reaches into her robes to produce two vials to offer Telamon.

The men seem to relax when Silmeria offers to take them to the private room. Though there's a sharp look from the one in the middle that suggests... something. Intelligence. He's smarter than he's letting on that he is. He clasps his hot-headed companion on the shoulder and nods. "We appreciate it Mourner. Finding who we're looking for is all we want." He even offers something of a smile to Telamon.

The three men move forward, encouraging Silmeria to show them to the private room. One of them 'casually' bumps Telamon's shoulder as he goes by. Hard enough to make the half-elf work to not drop the vials that Verna's handing to him. "Sorry." As insincere as an apology has ever been.

GAME: Telamon rolls reflex: (10)+6: 16

Cor'lana glares at the man who bumped into Telamon. It's the sort of glare that suggests: 'were we not in a holy place, the things I'd do to you', to the point where her fingers dance and she murmurs something under her breath. It's a little magic parlor trick, nothing more, but it'll make the posterior that belongs to that rude man... unseasonably chilly. Just for a moment.

Telamon deftly catches the vials in his hand, riding the bump as elegantly as a dancing step. He simply smirks at the man, his stare cool and unfazed. Politely, he nods to Verna, "Many thanks," he says with a gentle smile. "Are you well, then? How is your lady?" He casually winds his arm into Cor'lana's, ambling along in the wake of the three men. He is, to put it mildly, very suspicious and clearly doesn't intend to leave Silmeria -alone- with them (talking dragonspitters don't count, sorry).

Already, Silmeria was planning on getting these people into a soundproof room to channel their violence into thick, blood-stained stone walls. But then they got *petty.*

"Excuse me," she says to the backs of the three, her voice now in full 'big Sis thinks you done goofed' mode. "I'm sure you can apologize better than *that.* I expect *politeness* from people who want help from those who *serve Death joyously.*"

Should they turn back, they will see that her broom is now held against her opposite shoulder, leaving her gun hand free. And something about the tilt of her head is bouncing light from her spectacles, obscuring her eyes with silvery glare, above a face as expressionless as the granite of the temple.

GAME: Silmeria rolls intimidate: (8)+17: 25
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+17: (20)+17: 37

"She is well," Verna answer Telamon. She shall remain that way, as well. "Allow me to ensure the room is clear for your use." This noted as she moves towards the fire of this tentative parade to seek an unoccupied room for the alleged discussion. Said room being down an entirely different hall than the elder recently ventures down if at all possible.

It is unusual to see the white and gold of Daeus here in the somber halls of Vardama, but a man wearing a mantle in exactly those colors, pinned with the sunburst over a pen symbol that denotes a Temple messenger, strides through the door and pauses hesitantly in it. It's also unusual to see Dolan openly wearing the colors of Daeus, although the sunburst prominently visible around his neck is much more typical. The man whose shadow blocks the light from the main doors is both, the shadow of the haft of a greatsword over one shoulder mingling with his, and a parcel and scroll case in his off hand.

Dolan blinks at the sudden dimness, and looks around as if to get his bearings.

Silmeria's threat makes the three men come to a stop, but it's their leader that gives the game away. "Excuse me? You've been nothing but rude, inconsiderate, and- FUCK THIS." He growls and starts shapeshifting into a wolf, the three men behind him sheading their human form behind him. He lets out a piercing howl and people around you start to hit the deck. As in they're changing too. The priests. The parishioners. Not everyone, but too many, and most of the Vardaman's. "I'm going to tear this place apart. I'll have everyone kill and slaughter until there's nothing left of this place. Just US."

He leers at Silmeria. "Now you have a choice. Either you tell us who went to the fae realm, or we let loose the power of Caracoroth through the halls of Vardama and see how many survive."

GAME: Telamon casts Black Tentacles. Caster Level: 9 DC: 20
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+14: (4)+14: 18

It would be overstating it to say Telamon saw it coming, but needless to say, these guys are -clearly- short on subtlety. "Does your master ever tired of feeding his faithful into the teeth of Alexandria?" he comments, deadpan. Then his hands move in deft, practiced gestures, chanting, "Lirum adbar murub," before pointing.

The air ripples weirdly around the trio of newly-revealed werewolves, and suddenly there's a whistling sound, from far off. Black tendrils begin worming their way out of the flooring, suckered limbs grasping for the werewolves who suddenly have to dance and move to avoid being grabbed by the mindless limbs.

GAME: Silmeria rolls knowledge/nature: (5)+8: 13
GAME: Silmeria casts Flames of the Faithful. Caster Level: 9 DC: 14

The full weight of the leader's scorn causes Silmeria to take a step back... but even though her resolve wavers in the face of the promise of brutality, her duty and training are clear; these men are A Threat To The Temple, and Vardama has but one stricture when dealing with threats. The broom falls, and gun and shield are in her hands with such speed that one might suspect teleportation.

"I was willing to help," she says, and pauses for a moment to get the tremor out of her voice. "But now you've assaulted *my* temple, and *my* fellows, and as the Grey Lady is my witness, I WILL ENGRAVE YOUR SINS ON YOUR SOUL BEFORE I SEND YOU TO MEET HER." Shimmering, silvery light glimmers around her, and the fine traceries scrolling over her gun redden, glow, then burst aflame. Threat acknowledged.

GAME: Dolan rolls will: (18)+8: 26

Ice water runs in Dolan's veins as the werewolves, the priests and parishioners within, become a sight that has been repeated far too many times in his presence. _Not again._ He casts parcel and scroll case to the stones to the left of the door without hesitation and takes two strides forward, the sunburst clutched in one hand. "Holy Daeus, Lord of Justice!" he calls loud enough to be heard through the stone hall, his voice deep and without a hint of doubt. "Lend me your strength! The Nightmare has no power here! Not over the innocent!"

For a moment, it looks like nothing will happen, for the mobile half of his expression twists, then relaxes as the icewater in his veins is replaced by warmest sunlight at his call. There can be no doubt! Not for him - and not for the priests and parishioners caught in the grip of the interlopers. The change that twists them stops cold, and leaves them in peace - somehow.

GAME: Ravenstongue casts Glitterdust/Persistent. Caster Level: 8 DC: 20
GAME: Aftershock rolls 1d20+4: (1)+4: 5 (EPIC FAIL)

Cor'lana's holding onto her flowers still in the middle of all of this chaos, the sprigs of lavender happily at home in the crook of her arm. Her violet eyes narrow as she realizes what Dolan's done is working, but the instigators are still here. Still standing, albeit in tentacles.

"I think you'd look prettier with some fairy dust," she says with a sweet smile, followed by a magic incantation and a wave of her hands--and glittery dust falls onto the werewolves, getting into eyes and being a general nuisance.

The feytouched sorceress looks entirely too pleased with herself.

The lead werewolf is clearly blind, but he still does his best to pick his way out of the tentacles and glares in the general direction of Silmeria. "Who do you think is being killed right now? Who do you think suffers for your insolence? Caracoroth laughs because one of your number hasn't the courage to step forward. We don't want her dead. We need her alive. Just _give_ the Mourner to us!"

His allies step out of the range of the tentacles as well. One to either side so that they're well split up now. None of them can see so they strike up defensive postures.

The changing of the suspected lycanthropes is not a surprise to Verna. She has more experience with that than many. The initial change of others is not foreign, but it is an immediate stark worry. This is her temple, these her peers. Her girlfriend being down the hall does not make her any less concerned. Even with the prompt actions of others as she considers the situation do not fully assuage her worry. Perhaps it is just that alleged 'more emotional' side effect, but she holds up a hand. "No more! If you truly wished to speak to the Mourner, then speak! She is listening."

GAME: Telamon casts Hydraulic Push. Caster Level: 9 DC: 17
GAME: Telamon rolls 1d20+15: (14)+15: 29

"The words of the Nightmare are meaningless and without worth," Telamon replies. "And I made no promises. You have caused enough woe, skinwalker." He gestures again, elegantly, fingers tracing a circle in midair. "Anumun lirum," he says, and a gout of water slams into the lead werewolf, propelling the beast all the way back into the area where the tentacles writhe and twist, seeking a target.

With the werewolves blinded, corralled, and the transformation halted in its tracks, Silmeria seems to feel a wee bit more secure about the situation. The end of her gun still shakes ever so slightly, but her finger moves off the trigger as Verna speaks up... for now. Crooking a finger isn't *that* much movement, after all. "There. The specific Mourner you asked to meet is here. Now. It is *my duty* to make sure that no harm comes to any in this Temple. With that in mind, I ask again; *what do you need her for.* Answer true, and it will be considered truly."

GAME: Dolan rolls will: (4)+8: 12
GAME: Dolan rolls will: (14)+8: 22
GAME: Ravenstongue casts Haste. Caster Level: 8 DC: 19

There's a war going on behind that scarred face, and Dolan's jaw sets. Leather hits the stones, and the greatsword is in his hands, even as he strides forward to join those facing the werewolves down. How long he's able to hold whatever it is he is doing, is anyone's guess, but that's not anything he cares to show his enemy right now. The only illusion he shatters is any idea that he might be a stuffy Sunblade. "You stupid puppy," he sneers. "She didn't belong to the king of the sluagh, and she doesn't belong to you or anyone else. She can damn well decide for herself what she wants. You wanna go mess with the sluagh to challenge that? Are you that fucking stupid?"

Cor'lana eyes the situation at hand. Dolan's making a fantastic case, although there's a tiny sense of fear in her eyes when Dolan mentions the king of the sluagh that quickly dies down as she sets about her next task: she weaves a spark of magic that invigorates her allies that are close by, quickening magic to enhance their movements. The werewolves aren't going to get the jump if she can help it.

The werewolf seems at odds with himself, as if he doesn't know how wise it is to be honest with you all. Finally however he speaks. Even after Dolan's chastisement he speaks. "We need one that bridges the worlds to awaken one between them." He turns his head toward Verna's voice. "Come with us. No one else needs be harmed."

The other two werewolves keep up their defensive stances.

The implication that others are currently being harmed cause a flare of fear despite the appearance of control in the immediate situation. Verna has some strong notion of what Dolan is doing, or at least how, and she has no expectations of its duration. A moment of consideration followed before her raised hand lowers and she begins to step towards the lycanthrope leader, unshouldering her satchel. "I will accompany you. Cease any and all hostilities. My duty is to my temple, my friends, and my community." A logical course, one could argue: the needs of the many outweigh those of the few, or the one, afterall. As well, she has witnessed the temple and the Mourners ravaged before by the vampire Kol, and the threat made again by everyone's favorite former fiendish duke.

At Verna's words, Telamon stiffens, but he gestures... the tentacles suddenly slithering back into wherever they came from. "Not yet," he says quietly to Verna. "We require assurances that she will be returned, safe, hale, and whole. Do not even -think- to try and weasel out of this," he continues, his eyes stony as he stares at the werewolves.

"Perhaps one or two of your number remain behind here, in the temple... very securely... but safe. I am willing to listen to alternatives, but do not think I -trust- you."

With the fear leeching out of the Speaker's spine, the flaming gun steadies. The request is made honestly, and Verna answers for herself. Her eyes dart to the Mourner, then Dolan, then the sorcerous couple.

Then her gun rises, pointed away from anyone and everyone. "Mourner Verna has answered for herself, and I will honor that. Ser Telamon, you say you're willing to listen to alternatives, then I offer this; none are made to stay behind, but you *will* allow me to accompany her. I have no intention of standing in the way of a sacrifice willingly made, but I will go to ensure her choice *remains* her own. If she must die, then she will die at peace and with purpose, and above all by her own will. I *cannot* bend on this, and as servants of a god you know the why. This is my offer. If others wish to accompany us, then *I* will guarantee their good behavior."

An Inquisitor protects the faithful. An Inquisitor of Death ensures that the end is peaceful. Dolan, at the very least, will understand the Speaker's actions, having to thread his own needle between security and duty.

GAME: Silmeria rolls diplomacy+4: (3)+18+4: 25

By now, Dolan's gritted his teeth, but continues to stand with the others, and signs of strain are showing in his face. "All of you, get out of here. Get away from the wolves!" he shouts to the Vardamen, but the one-eyed, unsettling, unmoving gaze remains on the lead werewolf even afterwards. "All right. It's her decision. I hope to all the green garden hells you know what you're doing, Verna, because I hope to all the green garden hells I don't have to fucking oppose you. I'll help Auranar as I can. Go on." The greatsword goes point down, resting against the stone and not incidentally against his boot.

The werewolf seems to think about his choices again, but finally he nods. "As an act of good faith, we will take you with us Mourner. And, we will leave Gustov behind." The man in question starts to protest but his leader cuts him off. "It is not a fate worse than death Gustov, and we need the Mourner."

The man sighs and yet nods, agreeing to this compromise. The werewolves all shapeshift back into human form then and their leader holds his hand out to Verna. "Let me escort you Mourner, it is past time to be gone from here." His clothes hang ragged and baggy around him now that he's human once again, but it could be worse.

Cor'lana doesn't like it. Not one bit. But Verna's said her piece and there's a part of it that resonates with her. Her hands go down to her sides, but her fingers are still outstretched, like she's expecting one of them to turn violent again.

"Please just be safe. Auranar would be dearly upset with me if she learns I let you walk right into danger," the feytouched sorceress says. There's a little shiver in her form as she closes her eyes and sighs.

Knowing that Dolan's concentration remains, and is needed, elsewhere, Verna leaves him to that. His mention of Auranar, however, gives her pause; long enough that she may well be reconsidering, if just for a moment. She then turns to Silmeria, moting, "Others may need your protection more, but I will not dissuade you from your duties." She certainly understands. She then turns to Cor'lana and Telamon, her satchel offered to the latter. "There are more tinctures here as well as the ... scroll you will need to find your way."

Lana's words give her pause yet again, though more brief. Her expression softens as she leans in to place a hand briefly upon her shoulder and speaks softly to her. That done, she straightens both posture and composure before turning to step to the leader and accept the offered hand and escort.

Divine power is released, and Silmeria slips her pistol back into her holster. For a moment, she watches the trio, then nods to herself, and digs charcoal and loose paper out of her back to scribble a note. Seeing as, by now, the hall is in the process of being cleared, the Speaker sighs, vaguely frustrated. This will complicate matters, but only slightly.

Approaching the one named Gustov, she holds her free hand up in a peace gesture, extending the paper with the other. "To your right, there's a hallway. There is a priest on station at the third door on the right-hand side of that hallway. Give this to him, and he will give you a simple room to sleep in, and you'll have a place at mealtime. I will be the guarantor of your good behavior, so if I return and there *has* been trouble... well. *I* will be responsible. So I ask, do not cause trouble. If you need to have a fight, I'm sure you can ask to speak with some of the tomb guardians. There's *always* something that needs reminding how dead it's supposed to be."

Turning to the couple, Silmeria smiles brightly. "It was good to meet you again, Ser Telamon, and my lady, I *hope* we can have a proper introduction sometime soon. Perhaps over tea and cookies!"

To Dolan, then, her steps carry her, and she pauses for a moment, considering her words... Then, lowers herself to one knee, bowing her head. "Before *anything else at all,* I have to thank you and your Father for defending our halls. I'm sure it'll be added to the tally when His people have need of our help, but even still. When I, or Lady willing *we* return, I think we shall need to talk shop. But for now... duty calls." Rising back to her feet, she dips a half-curtsy, then moves to stand behind Verna's right arm, resting her shield in its place on her back.

It's pretty clear that Dolan's concentration has been elsewhere, but even as the werewolves drop their wolf forms, the tension begins to leave his features, and he sags against the greatsword, leaning against it and murmuring a prayer of thanksgiving and glory to the Sunlord. He looks up to find the Vardaman kneeling at his feet, straightens, and nods. "Shouldn't be any damn tally, aren't we all of the Light? Let's talk later, duty calls both of us. I was supposed to deliver a package." Suddenly, a cheeky grin blossoms across the half of his face that moves so readily. "Travel safe."

He lowers the greatsword, then, from its vertical position, and looks around at the others present. "Make sure you both make it back here. Telamon, Cor'lana, what in all the green garden hells are you two even _doing_ here?" He walks back over to where he'd dropped the harness, and re-sheathes the greatsword.

Telamon fixes Verna with an unyielding stare. "Come back. Not for me, or us, but for -her-." It's clear he doesn't like this either, and his hand slides into Cor'lana's on reflex. Needing that contact. When Dolan questions him, the half-elf raises an eyebrow. "Well, Lana and I were just here to chat with Verna, but honestly, I could ask -you- the same question, Dolan. What, by the teeth and toenails of Daeus himself, was -that-? How did you -do- that?" He gestures at the dazed priests and parishioners, recovering from their brief ordeal. "If that's wrapped up in our prior exploits and you can't say, fine, but that was -impressive-."

-End