Shealtiel and Michael make their way back to the city. The trip takes roughly an hour, in the course of which they exchange terse conversation, mostly concerning what course of action they should take when they arrive.

As the red night finally lifts, they come within site of Corinth's walls, passing over the heaps of Dybbuk ringing the area where they made their stand yesterday. Shealtiel quests out into the wastes, but finds no trace of the Rephaim, which is a relief. Typasius must have damaged it grievously. On their own, Rephaim can't heal naturally.

They find the gates open once more. Atop the falls, figures can be seen in silhouette against the rising sun.

"What a walk, and a talk for that matter. Let's go back to the tavern and play a little game of catchup before the militia catch on to our friends."
Michael kept quiet on the last part to keep those other than Altiel out of the reach of his voice.
Looking ahead there were two hooded silhouettes on the road which Michael didn't recognize. "Well who are these two?" he thought to himself, but when he blink, the figures disappeared. "How nice." Michael knew that in this weakened place, the peace can only last so long. Making his way, with Altiel, to the tavern, he kept an eye out for the blind assassin and the others. He knew that they were heading in the same general direction so it wouldn't have been that hard to spot any of them on the streets. However, the effort came in vain because they spotted neither Lev nor Bella and as the two walked into the tavern, the blind man, healer, and novice psychic were having drinks.

"Our fellowship has broken," Shealtiel observes. At Michael's questioning look, he says, "Never mind. It was before your time. Shall we join our felicitous companions?"

Lev nodded awkwardly, seemingly out of his element entirely now. Entering his own private room with the caution that a zebra might enter a crocodile infested river with, he peered around before fully entering.

The focal point of the room was a slightly beaten tub, filled with hot water. He almost gasped in awe. Water! Enough water to fill an entire tub! And he was going to bathe in it. In Tsavo there had never been enough water. People died of dehydration, or risked the water that poisoned the river banks. But this...people were able to afford the luxury to bathe in water. But the luxury came at a cost. He frowned as he pulled his revolver out, tension rising in his mind as he pieced future events together.

For him to bathe, Lev would have to remove his clothing. To be naked was vulnerable. To be naked was every weakness exposed. Every tool out of reach. Nothing to protect him. But if he was stay with the girl, he would still have to wash. Perhaps he could find some sort of compromise.

After searching the room for any other entrances, he proceeded to remove his clothing with one hand, still clutching his revolver. It took a few moments to disrobe, made no less complicated by his unwillingness to part with his firearm. After completely undressing, he cautiously touched the top of the water. The heat made him recoil slightly, not used to such...comforts. Finally he eased himself in, heart racing as more and more of him disappeared beneath the water line. He held his revolver with a death grip, the barrel never moving from the door as he adjusted to his very wet predicament.

After a quarter of an hour, he began to try to wash himself. The rough bar of soap was hard to hold with one hand, and lathering himself down was an odd concept he had only heard in stories of how people used to live. He awkwardly rubbed the bar against his face, not daring to stick his head below water to wash it off. To put his head underwater could spell suicide, with anyone able to just hold him there until he drowned. Eyes staring furiously at the door, he sprinkled the steaming water on his face in an attempt to remove the soap. Now the only thing he had left to deal with was his agonizing breath.

Putting two and two together that soap helped with things like cleanliness and not smelling, he promptly stuck the bar in to his mouth. The taste was terrible. Horrendous, bitter. But Lev held it there, using his tongue to push the bar around ever so slightly in an effort to clean his mouth. After a very long minute, he spat it out in to the tub. Using his spit to clean his mouth out, he eventually decided he had had enough of this 'bathing' ordeal. He stood up quickly, getting out of the tub as water cascaded down his scarred figure. Awkwardly drying himself off with a towel and his one free hand, he decided that maybe baths were not worth what he was being paid, should the situation arise again.

Dante pulled a chair closer, took a seat, and...

"Hm...why don't you girls order something for yourselves, and I'll pay? ...Oh, and...I suppose you two over there can have a drink, too," he added, noticing the two that had just entered the tavern.

"I suppose we shall." Shealtiel crosses the room to seat himself at the table, Michael a step behind him. "I can't imagine they have much in the way of variety here, but, I suppose we'll make do." Looking around, he adds, "It seems we've lost the most troublesome members of our small company, though, I imagine we'll be seeing them again."

Feenai mentally slapped herself for not replacing her shields earlier, as the rather loud thoughts of all the new people started invading her mind. She pushed them out of her head and replaced her shields as she dropped the Network connection. "I'll just start with some mead then?" She saw Jeanne nod in agreement.

She took a better look at the older man. His mention of "troublesome" members automatically brought her mind back the the previous events with Ruebella, and she had to work hard to not narrow her eyes in disgust. Realizing she had started staring, she averted her eyes and addressed everyone. "Wherever you all are headed, John and I agreed with each other that if you didn't mind our company, we would come with you. Does that sit well with all of you?"

"The two of you? Certainly not, as long as the Theurge can stomach my presence." Shealtiel's eyes sweep between them. "However," he says, turning to regard the blind man, "If you're going to be accompanying us as well, I require assurance that you won't act so... precipitously, in the future. Tell me, Dante, are you capable of controlling yourself? Of reining in all that rage and indignation?"

The hunter mused silently. My name? Hm. but of course, they can read minds. He grinned wryly. "Put yourself in my place. Would you be able to? As long as that man isn't within a hundred feet of me, I should be able to stop myself from throttling him...I think. Anyways, I don't think I'd like to be eaten."

Rumors of the attack quickly slipped in and out of Michael's ears as he tried to keep up with the conversation and listen to the background chatter at the same time. A few names in the group slipped through to Michael: John and Dante. Although 'John' seemed like a peculiar name for a girl in Michael's opinion, he figured that Feenai didn't realize her gender quite yet.
"So I was right in assuming that Bella was the red cloaked person. Good. I now have all the names down," Michael thought congratulating himself. He bought a pint of 'dirt-water' under Dante's tab, despite his preference for wine hence the name.
The people, however, were the greater attraction to Michael. Some said that he and Altiel took down the entire army with their bare hands and then battled the Saint toe to toe. Other claimed that the Saint did all of the work and that they were just imagining. In any case, none of them could really describe Michael or Altiel very well, so they were deprived, for better or worse, of that reputation.
Michael took another sip of his drink before joining the conversation at hand.
"It's fine with me, Feenai, but the way I see it, John's a guy's name."
"If I'm not mistaken," he thought after.

Fee ordered mead, which Jeanne had never had; however, her grandmother had always told her that wine was precious and she didn't want to make Dante pay for it. So instead she just nodded.

She was not very comfortable being around the old man; like Ree, something was inherently wrong about him, and Jeanne didn't trust him at all. Fortunately his focus left her quickly and moved to the blind man, whose name she learned was Dante. Looking around at the others, Jeanne realized that two of the group were missing, but said nothing. After all, she wasn't particularly fond of one and the other seemed to die far too often for her liking.

A man's voice brought her out of her thoughts. "In most places, it seems to be," she said, shrugging. "But in France, Jeanne is a woman's name."

"Ah, it's Jeanne, then. You don't happen to be from France, are you?" Michael corrected the name in his head. "Well then, Jeanne, you may call me Michael, or Mike if that is more convenient, local artificer and Occlumency specialist," Michael said to her, extending his hand.
"An intresting person, at the very least. Let's see what she thinks of me, before I decide what is to be done. She is the healer after all, and you know what is said about the healer: 'don't piss off the healer'."

Glancing back to the theurge, Shealtiel nods slowly. "Indeed. Like the Saint of Arc, who now commands the defense of Alexandria. A severe woman, I have heard. Hardly surprising."

He shrugs, and accepts his drink when it is delivered. It has been... long since he has indulged in such pleasantries. He sips slowly, savoring the taste.

Jeanne nodded at his question before setting down the book so that her hand was free to shake his. "Nice to meet you," she said while eyeing his hair. It was the same color as the old man's, but Michael seemed to be fairly young. She made a mental note to figure out why.

Surprised by Shealtiel's next words, she nodded. "Yes, I was named after her." Jeanne stopped talking just as her mead was served, and she took a sip with caution. To her surprise it was actually quite pleasant, and she took another.

Dante juggled several coins and dropped one before handing them over. Seething inwardly (Seriously? I managed to drop it?), he gulped half of his Madras and stopped, feeling his throat burning. Aaaoooooooooowch. He'd forgotten he hadn't had much to drink for the past few weeks besides the tonic from the night before. And then pride caught up with him. He couldn't let everyone else think he was a drunkard, now, could he?