Skandra noticed what Aeotha did not, but only because he was looking for it and she was looking for a phantom. In the tangle of spires not far from here - those great silver obelisks reaching toward the sky - a cloud of dust had appeared. It didn't look like a cloud of dust one would see from horses. Which was why he knew that it had to be horses. The density and propensity of the fine silver-white dust they'd walked upon to get here would be flung into the air by nothing else that Skandra knew of and probably few things that he did. Someone must have seen visitors coming out of the bowl. Someone who was watching. If this was Gershul's doing, he would have been watching. Couldn't have interlopers ruining your plan.
"She means Gershul," Skandra answered the priestess. "Keep calm, and we might just live through this. Eavra, take your children and go inside."
There was no argument from the woman. She simply went, rushing along as fast as she could, her children weeping as quietly as they could while they followed. Too far away yet to see how many riders there were. Maybe four minutes, maybe five, before they arrived. Skandra stripped off his coat, revealing the collection of leather straps and harnesses that secured his knives to his body. The coat was flung to the ground. Next he took off his hat and dropped it on top of the coat. Last but not least the gloves were removed. Wadded together, deposited on his hat, freeing up his hands - which felt as though they'd been sweating inside of an actual dead cow. That old snap and creak of leather, too familiar to suit him, and yet somehow necessary.
At least there was a breeze.
The clasp and hitch on his side sword was undone. It hung loose and free at his waist, now. The Vel he moved from the small of his back to an oversized pouch of leather against his right shoulder. It nearly missed a good fit, but it would stay where it was until he needed it, and it was easier to draw and fire from the shoulder than the back. A shuffling of boots. Keep 'em on. And then he was ready, standing with his arms down at his sides.
"Be ready," Skandra warned her quietly. "They're gonna try and shoot first, but they'll come sideways and see if they can do it without a fight. I'm gonna try and get information out of them, Aeotha, but if that doesn't work I'm going to put them in the dirt. Good chance they're Immortals. Don't know if that means a fucking thing here or not. Don't know if alchemy works here or not. So keep that staff close, you hear?"
Two minutes.
The last time he'd felt this way had been... when? In the ruins of yet another city, staring down the creature that had brought him into this world. It was then Shantar had asked him, once again, what it meant to him that Gershul was still alive. What it meant to him that every time he'd confronted Gershul, the old man had nearly killed Skandra. It wasn't a question of pride. Better men than Gershul had left Skandra for dead. And it wasn't a question of weakness, either. It was a question of... Gershul didn't deserve to live, for the things he'd done. And Skandra wanted nothing more than to watch the old-timer die.
One and one half minutes.
Skandra's knuckles folded together, and cracked beneath the pressure.