The Shadow and The Huntress

Faelyn's eye flicked between the women, the building tension thick enough to be cut with a knife. Sadly for all of them, he did not carry one on his personage, and so it was left to build and fester instead. The archivist was aware of the Huntress and her stalking ways. She may not have been born of Arlathan, so few that still drew breath were of the old age, and those that were now born here were little more than toddlers. But still, she stood with Arlathan, and that was good enough for him. 

Good enough for him to take her side almost automatically in whatever conflict had caused the venom to reenter Avorra's tone. 

He greeted her in his way, with a small, acknowledging nod. That remains yet to be seen, good Huntress. I think that all lies in the hands of Avorra, here. His eyes turned from the rogue back up to the intruder in these lands. He was not fooled by the shift in her tone, though the shift to perhaps a more diplomatic approach was appreciated. A civil tongue would go far with him. I am Faelyn Korath. The Archivist of Arlathan and the keeper of these particular halls. It is a shame to know that long journeys are what cause the young of this age to lose their manners. Though if rest is what will return them to you, I'm sure that I could find a bench for you to sit on. As if his own steps were not the ones that were constricted and pained by centuries of the whipmaster's lashes.