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<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">Diplomacy 31 vs DC 30. Careful wording and command of the situation avoids Damien and Boric coming to blows.</span></span>
"So, Damien," you look to the heretic at your side. The King trusts the Order of the Imaginary Color. You trust the King's judgment, even more than your own. Therefore, you suppose you trust this devil-you-know enough to call him comrade-in-arms, but not a hair's breadth further than that. "What heresies can you conjure to aid our men in the battle to come?"
"I thought you'd never ask!" Damien sounds excited. Throwing back his hood, he unties the bindings about his eyes.
When the blindfold falls, you feel a pressure weighing down on you. As if the air suddenly became a thousand times heavier, like the crushing depths of the ocean. On instinct, you draw the light into your body, making you the only one of your men not forced to the ground by this overbearing weight. Even so, you feel the pressure upon your knees and spine, as though ten-thousand bars of iron were just placed upon your back.
"What treason is this?" hisses Boric. The curtain of his blonde hair covers his face as he struggles to stand, his head bowed by the tremendous weight upon you. "What devil have you conjured, Damien?"
You do not ask questions. Though it weighs heavy at your side, your Faith in the Lord of Light gives you strength enough to raise your lance to level with Damien's throat. Your voice is quiet, but carries will enough to demand that he, "Undo your spell, <span class="mu-i">warlock</span>. Lest you be mistaken for the Dark One's get."
Your eyes meet his.
You see them for the first time, burning with the light of a color that does not exist. One cannot find the shade 'magenta' when one breaks light into its components with a prism. It is a heretical thing, and in his eyes, you can see the faint lines of a flower dancing and shifting, the circles forming new blooms as they move in a chaotic pattern.
"I am no friend to the Lightless, Dame Louise," Damien raises his hands in supplication, but the spell does not fade. He looks to your men at arms with a frown. "No more than this is a spell."
"Explain." you demand.
"When I unseal these eyes of mine... there is a threshold one must exceed to withstand them," Damien explains, his hands still raised, his ever-present smirk twisted into a serious frown. He tells you that, "Your man Boric is on the cusp of meeting it. Just a little more and he'll be there. While you... well, I had no doubt that the Maid of Charlemont would not be knelt by the Lord of Wisdom's gift."
You lower your lance, but only just. Boric rises to his feet, but hunched over as he is, he would be of no help if you wished to fight Damien. You choose to trust in the King's judgment for now, and ask, "What need had you to unseal them? Sorcery needs no special eyes, last I checked."
"That's obvious, Dame Louise," Boric spits. "This Lightless bastard means to feed your men to the orcs, and give the women over to the goblins."
