[Gwathagor]

Athanar finished speaking. Wilcred slouched down at his bench and tried not to make eye contact with anyone. This is ridiculous, he thought. Lithor is acting absurd and here Crabannan has to go and make things worse. The man's been no trouble for months, why'd he have to go and choose this moment to stir things up?

He sighed and concentrated on his plate. Some men just can't escape themselves, their pasts. Wilcred looked up, towards Crabannan, who was standing beside Lithor in the center of the hall. A moment before he had been grinning like a demon, but now his countenance was as dark and impossible to read as he eyed Athanar keenly. There was something strange about the man, an imbalance in his humors, maybe. Is he mad? Wilcred thought, and frowned, realizing that they still knew next to nothing about the stranger. He could fight like a whirlwind and play the harp like a born bard, but beyond that - nothing. He was a grim, dour enigma, taken by spells of strange levity. Almost like he's some mad hill-spirit, raven-like, and yet...he laughed at himself. No, Crabannan was a man. An strange man, but a man.

Wilcred looked from Crabannan to Lithor to Athanar, awaiting the next move. It hurt him to see his fellows cut down so by Lord Athanar, but he honestly hoped they would simply sit down and not embarrass themselves further. A fight was the very last thing they needed, though he began to wonder if Lithor and Crabannan felt the same way...