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The matter of writing to Sir Rabe is more difficult to decide. He has been your erstwhile comrade since you first met all those months ago. A major House to the north like Norwache being threatened by mercenary activity, or perhaps hiring mercenaries themselves, is something that is certainly of concern to his House. While the Rabes may not share a direct border, the Norawache are a major Montbrun noble house controlling one of the three Törwatcher Gates. The stability of their lands will doubtless have ramifications for the security of the Duchy as a whole, especially if the Snakemen incursions are more serious than everyone seems to think. Failure to give Sir Rabe forewarning when it is within your power could cost lives. You will not have that inaction on your conscience, certainly not for the sake for placating an agent of the Queen who may decide to keep such a thing secret if it somehow benefits the Queensmen.
The phrase ‘better to ask forgiveness than permission’ springs to mind, but given that there is no suggestion this information relating to the Axemen of Lorne’s movements has anything at all to do the primary concerns of Sir Gilbern’s sphere of interest. You hope that your honesty in what exactly you have told anyone else will furnish trust that the balance of the report is indeed for his eyes only.
As for the Angel… Had the Angel bid you to write of them you would have scribed down every detail of their visions until your hand cramped and ink ran out. If the Angel bid you to tell the world of their visitations you would climb the tallest tower and shout your declarations until your lungs were hoarse. But thus far the Angel has spoken to you in whispers, given you the threads to pull. You cannot divine the Almighty’s intentions, but you know they go beyond something as paltry as just another source of intel, albeit an undoubtedly omniscient one. You will not disseminate the proof of their visions, however reassuring the vindication of your own belief by others might have been.
You blink at the conclusion of the Sandag service, you were so lost in your own musings that you missed the priest’s sermon on the exiled Brothers taking shelter at the foot of a mountain during a desert storm. You’re somewhat familiar with the parable, but you had completely missed the point the priest of this homely chapel was trying to drive home. Afterwards, as people bid their brothers and sisters in the Faith farewell at the chapel doors, you’re surprised to note more than a few Langlish in attendance. Such men, and the odd woman, are still garishly dressed for a Sandag Mass but far more modest in your view compared to their heathen countrymen.
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