Morokei often asks uncomfortable questions, even when he doesn't realize it. Vokun likes this, too, even if he sometimes answers with half-truths. He is allowed to do so. “About sleep. It was a hard day today.” “Do you want me to follow you to your rooms? Servants prepared them for you.” What does he want? To stay. To sit there until the fire goes out, listening to the smooth flow of Morokei's voice: after really busy hours when they had to kill someone, he liked to read poetry to relax. Vokun didn't know the language of his books, but it didn't matter. Not when they were alone. To go. To the cozy room, as it had always been since Bromjunaar had gained a new master. To enter it together, to stop Morokei before the heavy oak door, and to touch hands in response to his curious gaze. If he was ready to step forward, even if just for one night without any obligations, so many other things would lose their meaning. So far, he has only lost his mind.

‘My name is Liotr Hawkblade,’ said he; surprising me, for his voice was rather more down his nose than the late Prelate, and half as intimidating: ‘I am given to understand that you have been invited to a birthday-party by Count Daeran Arendae?’ I had questioned the morality of such a bash: but the Inquisitor’s stare made me wonder if such a thing were in fact illegal: if this latter were the case, I might have to reconsider my refusal. ‘I was,’ said I: ‘but I assure you, I turned it down. We don’t have time for things like that, –’ ‘You may well have to make time,’ said Hawkblade quickly: ‘Commander, you probably know some of the rumours about the Count, –’ ‘He surrounds himself with them like horse-flies,’ I returned: ‘do you mean the one about the Garundi prince and the barrel of marmalade, or the one which involves the Queen ending up, –’ ‘I mean the rather darker ones,’ said Hawkblade sighing: ‘leastways that is besides the point. There are… events… which hinge on the fall of Heaven’s Edge, which I should like to investigate for myself. However, I am of course in the… deeply unfortunate position of not being invited to this party of his.’ I looked the Inquisitor up and down. The man had little of Hulrun Shappok’s sheer bricklike force; nor did a likewise insanity brew in his eyes; but his very uniform, which I had ever dreaded in Kenabres despite being the sweetest and most upstanding halfling in existence, rather put me off the man. Probably he had been as naturally absent from the Count’s guest-list as a Hellknight paralictor from a brothel. I thought of several responses which might have put me on a pyre, before eventually saying: ‘Are you really going to suggest I take you as a plus-one? you might be less conspicuous simply gatecrashing the thing.’

Vadril - Death

Lost in thought as he was, he nearly noticed it too late – the subtle shift in Arri’s stance, the only warning before she launched herself forward as if to strike Jauffre. By the time he realized what she was about to do, he could do nothing but stumble after her and reach out in an attempt to hold her back, just to prevent the worst. It was a good thing that he did, too, because Jauffre stared at the chaos surrounding them, hands shaking and eyes casting about wildly, as if there were answers to be found in the items strewn across the room. He would never have reacted in time to defend himself or step out of the way, not that Martin could really blame him, or Arri for losing her temper. He felt her trembling as his arms went around her waist to hold her back from attacking Jauffre, felt how tense she was. She’d been hanging on by a thread for days, and even Jauffre would have to admit that she was right – he should have let her keep the Amulet, or at the very least found a better hiding spot for it. But then, how could Jauffre have known to anticipate this? How had the cultists even found out about the Amulet’s location? Had Arri been tracked when she first made her way to the priory, as she had certainly done when she’d delivered the damn thing? Assuming she’d been as worried about being followed as she’d been on their way here, she wouldn’t have allowed that to happen. Or had it been someone else who’d given them away, perhaps another Blade coming to get new orders? Not that it mattered now. The Amulet was gone. And that fact alone scared him – if the Mythic Dawn had seen a necessity to get their hand on the Amulet, they had to know there was still someone left who could relight the Dragonfires. They knew, somehow, that he had not died in Kvatch as they had intended. Arri had very likely come to the same conclusion, cursing and struggling against his hold, and he had to keep his arms locked around her waist to have a chance of keeping her in place. And he understood – if it had been him in her place, he would have been furious. To risk one’s life to save another, to single-handedly make everything fall into place, and then have it all be in vain due to the carelessness of another … No, he believed her anger to be well justified. Still, he didn’t want her stabbing the Grandmaster. If she had such a thing as a conscience – and she did, he was almost certain of that by now – she certainly had no need of a murder weighing on it. “Don’t,” he muttered, low enough so that only Arri would hear, even as she attempted to dislodge his arms. “I understand, I truly do. But save your strength. Think of your injury. This won’t do you any good.” He was well aware he was making use of her apparent unwillingness to hurt him just to get away, and he also understood that she would be livid with him later, once the impulse to simply cut Jauffre down receded. But until then, he had to keep holding on to her. She was still a fighter while Martin was nothing of the sort; it should have been child’s play for her to free herself. And yet, there she was, struggling in a way they both knew would not get her out of his hold. Perhaps she truly didn’t have that much strength left, or she was merely doing it because the pain and frustration and despair needed to go somewhere, and Martin could at least be there. “I know! I know, but you don’t get it,” she seethed, her fingers now digging into his arms instead of her own palms, and the sound she made following those words sounded terrifyingly close to a wail. “He’s doomed you, just let me go, it’s his fault!”