Falk leans to the side as the blade passes, before leaning back into the shadows once more, his face a maske. His eyes are the dangerous green hue still. Aisling watches the exchange, feeling the threats and danger floating about the air. The crispy air takes a static tone, dark and haughty. "Control thy weapon, Gremlin King. Thou hast been cunning to rise so high, a shame if you would be cast low over thine own sword." The glittering eyes of Fae back behind the two pools that run the length of the hall glitter in savage delight. The great towering trees groaning as the flickering lanterns swaying. One almost could see the twisted faces and pleading silent cries of still sculptures in the wooden trunks, the walls on either side of the wall are cast with light as thunder strikes. Images of old Kings that had been cast down and enemies wrought into twisted ends shone in battle scarred mosaics. Challengers had come and gone, his hall had been nicked and notched with the battles of ages. Himself, wounded and bleeding still had held his throne and had ruled his court with nary a protest or upraised hand made against him. For all within his court swore fealty with their name, full and true. If lie was told unto the King, one would find themselves facing a very unsettling prospect.