"Says the priest holding a forbidden machina. If anyone's blaspheming, it's you."

"Our weapons have been blessed by Yevon!" The guard spits back. 

"No, they haven't. They've been stolen from Al Bhed hands, hands that you condemn for holding them!" Zveran walks up close to one of the guards, getting right into his face. 

He feels the press of a barrel in his stomach. "I'm a summoner. I'd suggest you not shoot," he says, cooly.

"It would seem a bad idea when there appears to be a shortage of summoners."

"An Al Bhed summoner? Yevon would never bless one of those blasphemers," the guard snarls. 

"I am. And if you give me just one second, I can pro-" Zveran doesn't get another word out before the butt of a gun is slammed across his head. 

He stumbles to the ground, feeling blood drip down his face. "Leave. We won't ask again," the guard commands.

"Yes. We're leaving."

-And they do appear to be. Apart from the part where they're not actually going anywhere. But there's definitely what appears to be Masque, Zveran and Aten leaving, even as Masque reaches down to help Zveran to his feet.

Zveran does not question what is happening, but lets Masque haul him upright, and follows them inside. 

Once he's convinced they're safely out of earshot, he turns to Masque. "What- How did you do that?"

Masque slumps a little once they're out of sight. "I don't-" they say tiredly. "I just can."

"It's incredible," he says on a breath. 

And then blood drips into his eye. "Well. We make quite the trio. The boy made of fire, the bleeding Al Bhed, and the exhausted illusionist," he said, with a grin. 

They duck there head, a quiet laugh escaping them. "We should find the Cloisters before anyone else tries anything."

"Are you strong enough to do that illusion again?"

"If I need to," Masque confirms. "If we can avoid it, it would be preferable."

"All right then. Sneaking. My speciality. Just try to look like you know where you're going, and I will, somehow, keep looking down."

Masque nods.

And so: sneaking?

Zveran proves to be very, very good at avoiding attention. It does beg the question as to why he attracted so much before, but he would chalk it up to his innate theatricality. 

Unfortunately, someone does get to close at one point, and so, without thinking, Zveran backs Masque up into an alcove, hands resting either side of their chest, listening for when the priest passes. 

...That gets the very strong impression of an eyebrow, but Masque doesn't argue the point.

Once they’re clear, Zveran turns back to look at Masque. “Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t particularly sound it. 

The grin on his face rather spoils the effect. 

They shake their head at him and push him to continue down the corridor. "No you aren't."

He laughs, but steps out next to them, leading the way. 

Judging from the two priests not carrying weapons, the door behind them is the way to the Cloister. 

“I think that’s us.” He points. 

"...I can probably illusion us, but I doubt I'll be much use in the trial-"

...or Aten could set fire to a drape in the opposite direction from the one they're approaching from.

Zveran catches Aten’s idea, and looks over at the drape. He quirks a lip at the aeon. “Good idea. Go for it.”

It's a simple matter, and the curtain catches light easily.

The commontion is immediate and chaotic. 

However, the door to the Cloister is now free. 

“All right. Let’s go.”

Zveran tears off across the room. 

Masque and Aten close on his heels.