"Oh," he says, feeling a little fuzzy-headed. A shepherd and a new member of the watch. That's exactly who needs to know he's Profane. He wonders if somewhere Lance is feeling anxious, or the beginnings of heartburn. Maybe it's just Detlef.

He leads the way to the stables and in through the smaller, person-sized door. "Come on in." His voice sounds a little fuzzy to his own ears and he knows he should really sit down soon, but there are two stump-seats near the fire and he needs to roll a third over from the corner first. Then he needs to retrieve three clean mugs from the cupboard and the moonshine and bring it all over before finally he can sit down. He's not on trial, but he can't say he's feeling entirely safe right now.