The Enchanter hid the true extent of her fury well, but it was there, venom in her eyes as she watched Bethen disappear into the Chantry, her painted lips pressed into a thin line. Alderic suspected that the woman never even heard what he’d said; she only belatedly seemed to remember that he was still there at all, and even then didn’t quite look at him before she turned away. She uttered the coldest “Excuse me” the Templar had ever heard (significant in that as a Templar stationed in the Tower it wasn’t as if he hadn’t felt the brunt of a fair share of passive-aggression) and, with a haughty swish of robes, retreated gracefully in the opposite direction.
Alderic sighed and, now that no-one was looking and he might be able to salvage his last tattered scrap of pride, pried off his gauntlet. The wrist looked all right, but the gauntlet sure didn’t. It seemed unwise to try to wear it like this into battle, it limited his range of motion and was very uncomfortable. When he next saw Constans today, he would have to ask the Tranquil if the dents could be fixed. If not by him, perhaps there was a local blacksmith… He was stalling. Shaking his head, he roused himself and marched determinedly toward the Chantry and up the steps, sparing a beleaguered smile for the visibly upset Chanter wringing his hands outside. “I’m sorry,” he apologized gently on behalf of the mage-and-monster pair that stormed in a minute before. “I’ll see what I can do.” He really had no idea at the moment what that would entail, but Maker help him, he couldn’t help but feel that this whole mess was his responsibility.
Bethen lingered ahead, standing with her back to him at the opposite end of the nave, the great white menace leaning into her hand. The pair drew nervous whispers from the smattering of clergy and townsfolk in the building, most gathering together for protection- or gossip- into frightened little knots of twos and threes… with the exception of a pair of Templars, alert and staring. Alderic hustled forward, holding up one hand in a gesture of contrition as one of the men hesitantly reached toward his sword-hilt, the slits of his helm fixed on the strange visitors. “I vouch for her, brother,” he said quickly, painfully aware that, despite his voice coming out in little more than a polite murmur (appropriate Chantry-voice had been deeply ingrained into him well before he even began Templar training as a boy; he probably could not have raised his voice any louder under this roof if he were being tortured), he might very well be overheard by his already-angry companion. He’d take her anger, though, if it spared them all an unfortunate confrontation with the local Chantry. Relieved as the Templar’s stance relaxed noticeably, he added, “She’s a friend. I don’t know what to tell you about the animal,” he sighed reluctantly, “but it’s with us.”
The other Templar turned to look at him, radiating skepticism despite his hidden features. Wary but not terse, he took in the crushed gauntlet dangling from Alderic’s hand and waited a thoughtful moment to reply. “Just keep the… dog,” he said meaningfully, “from causing any trouble, and there won’t be any problems. You and your friend are welcome here.” He gestured discreetly to the other Templar nearer the pulpit, who shrugged and stepped back against the wall, still watching Bethen and the wolf carefully.
Alderic nodded in appreciation of the man’s patience, crossing his breastplate with his ungloved hand in salute. “Thank you, brother.”
The other Templar smiled; Alderic could see it in his eyes. “Weylan,” he offered.
Alderic returned the smile. “Alderic. Please excuse me, Ser Weylan.”
Extracting himself with a dip of his head, he walked toward Bethen feeling like he was already treading on eggshells. He pushed his mop of hair away from his forehead, uncertain what he should even say. Settling on nothing, he came to a stop a respectful distance behind Bethen and watched her in concern.