He hasn't had much time to convalesce at the temple where he was raised from the dead. They allow patients to stay for a time, of course, recognizing that not everyone who is raised from the dead has a home to go to. Rather than stay in the little house he rents outside the city walls, Glynlen let himself be pampered by the clerical apprentices: all the food he could eat, clean water, and privacy in which to trance he might want.
A part of him feels he ought to be happy. To be alive again is a gift; to see Sariel and Enna once more is a treasure. The Naïlo paid to raise him--paid to raise him without expectation of being paid back!--and though he feels the debt keenly, he feels also the weight of their acceptance. He never quite felt like one of them, but they've shown by their actions that he is. That they accept him. The feeling isn't a bad one at all.
Yet he's alone here in the temple. No one else was raised with him from that ugly battle. The rest of the division he'd been accompanying into the Silverwoods is gone, buried or burned as their families wanted. Few soldiers are paid well enough to allow a "resurrection fund" to be stashed away, and their families are often even poorer; in Brilight, the rich and well-to-do rarely join the army, or at least not as grunts.
So it's just him, the lone survivor of the bandit ambush he failed to predict. The feeling isn't great.
When the messenger arrives, it's almost a relief to have his thoughts occupied. She's a little wisp of a city elf child; so young her ears are almost as long as the rest of her, as the elders used to say about him. Her cheeks burn from running in the midsummer heat and humidity. Though Eleasis is almost past and Eleint soon to come, the heat will leave when it is ready and not a day before. "You're Glynlen?" she demands, her childish voice imperious in the way only one bearing an official messenger medallion can be. "Message for you from Vice-Captain Imokina. You're to report back to the city wall with me. Like, now."
Bemused, he allows the child to escort him to the city wall and the offices which the captains and vice-captains call their own. He knows the name 'Imokina' vaguely; a sort of good, solid impression of a soldier who doesn't cause trouble and does her duty well. Someone must have noticed for her to be promoted to vice-captain--if she were rich or being promoted as a favor, they'd just call her a captain and forget the intermediary step.
Her office is a jumble of books and papers, which he is forced to pick his way gingerly about while the messenger announces--or, rather, yells--his name before slamming the door closed behind him. A young human woman in her mid-twenties moves about the room gathering up papers into a stack and generally trying to combat the mess. She is failing, but you wouldn't know it from the warm smile she gives as she straightens and offers her hand to shake.
"Dolores Imokina, Paladin of Pelor, Vice-Captain of the Eight Division, she of the Brilight Army," she says, the crispness of her tone marking her as military as much as her uniform. "You are Glynlen Liadon, I am led to understand," she deadpans in acknowledgment of the messenger's earlier ear-splitting bellow.