The day, or days, have been hard: magic has only ever made Teren uncomfortable, and in particular being subjected to it, and between having her own memories laid bare and witnessing others, she’s had quite enough. There’s a slump in her shoulders as she plods along with the returning group, a furtive glance to the resident necromancer. He had parlayed with the spirit, talked it down. She and the young Templar had watched his back in the meantime, a triad of Nevarrans more disparate than one would think possible.

She doesn’t trust what Emmrich does, but he seems to do it well. Perhaps it’s the weakness of age— or the fact that his is the closest to hers that she’s met in the company of Riftwatchers— but it’s difficult not to be curious about all of it. It’s possible she doesn’t even are if he catches her looking at him.