A few moments after he left the gates, Ordhan found himself striding through a hallway in the Keep, a few wooden shards in one hand and a dented shield on his back. Conlan's so-called "overpower" moved had earned him a broken training sword and Conlan bragging rights for a while. No doubt he'd have to whether quite a few more quips about being too old to fight. Not that Ordhan ever minded, but Conlan certainly liked his quips.
Ordhan had insisted Conlan demonstrate the move repeatedly so that he could prepare a defense for it. The splinters of the training sword would be useless, of course, so Ordhan started towards his quarters to fetch a sturdier sword; its undulled edge would be too dangerous to practice unfamiliar moves with, but if he held to only defense it would be safe enough.
The staccato rapping of his footsteps echoed in the stone corridor. As he went, other sounds began to mingle with it: voices, argumentative and scolding and surprised, though he could not make out the words. At first they became more distinct as he neared, then drew away. He rounded a corner and halted just shy of running into a woman standing there. It was one of the mages--in fact, the mage who had left with Hilda not long before. The skald was not with her. Or was that her just now disappearing at the corridor's opposite end, with...a templar in tow? ...No, it couldn't be.
"Your pardon," he said, dipping into a shallow bow. He had come too close to colliding with her; what a lovely impression that would have made.