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Slim fingers wove the spider silk about the wooden frame used by the Black Widows of the Hourglass. Ruby drops of blood slipping along the strands as the hands moved absently, unaware of the damage that was being done. The Black Widow that sat before the tangled web that was being woven had a vacant look in her icy blue eyes. Her gaze far off in the strands of the web, and the strands of time itself. Faeril Ashkevron had felt the call to weave like she never had before and the Eyrien heeded it.

Far off, yet so near, the blue eyed woman watched a map of the Realm of Terreille splay out before her like a great tapestry. However, there was a wrongness to it. The blood red that slowly seeped off of Dhemlan, the Territory to the south of Askavi, was thick and the Healer within Faeril could feel the draw to go. To heal the wounded and ill. But this was not such a place as she could do so. Here she was an observer. To see what the twisted kingdom that laid dormant in the dreams of the Blood showed her. Looking to the east of Dhemlan, the woman brushed her hand across the territory of Hyall and recoiled at the sickening feel and the sight of the tapestry rotting away slowly where she had touched. Smaller points of rot began in Pruul and Raej as well, though they were not so quick. With horror, the Widow watched as the map slowly rotted away. Revealing the Shadow Realm of Kaeleer beneath it. The rot slowly infesting the second of the living realms. But there was another darkness here as well, one that shielded the land from the destruction of Terreille and it was black as night.

Tearing herself away from the vision, the Healer and Widow gave a cry as she collapsed at her work table. Her eyes staring blankly at her bleeding hands as a thundering came from the stairs that led up to the rest of the eyrie and her ancestral home. The home of Ashkevron Black Widows in general, as it had been passed from mother to daughter, or teacher to student, but always within the blood of her kin. ”Ashke! Ashke-! Oh, Mother Night.” The Eyrien woman felt her hands being yanked away as another examined them, her gaze still fastened on the triangle that had shielded and slowed the rot within her vison.

”Destroy it.” Gennar 'Gen' Saroth, the escort to Healer Faeril Ashkevron and the guard of Black Widow Faeril Ashkevron, looked up sharply into the icy eyes of his long time friend. Her hands were lacerated with scraps and lines where the spider silk had cut through flesh due to the tightness of her grip. It wouldn’t take much to heal them, aside from Ashke taking it easy for a few days which was another problem within itself. ”Destroy the web, Gen.” The voice that normally barked sharp commands and snapped far quicker than any lash, was shaking and soft. A plea. It scared the Hell out of Gen. Faeril never spoke softly unless it was deadly serious. Nodding his square jaw, the Warlord left her hands to lie while he reached for the web. The threads no use to another as they were tangled and the reek of Faeril’s psychic power stemmed from it like she had set it ablaze by power alone.

Which, she probably did. Faeril over did things from time to time for better or worse. But more often for the betterment of others, nevermind herself. It was part of being a Healer. To think yourself expendable while you really were no such thing. But Gen crushed the wooden frame and the web in his massive hands before letting the ruined mess fall into the brazier Faeril kept in her workroom for just that reason and to provide a little heat to the cool underground. He could never understand why she would enjoy it down here, so far from the sky, but the need for secrecy was great these days. Black Widows were being hunted down for being ‘unnatural’ and ‘dangerous’.

Opening his mouth to ask what she had seen, Gen didn’t get the chance as the oldest of those Black Widows in Terreille that remained faithful to the Hourglass Coven spoke. ”The poison that we have watch twist the Blood from the proper ways of Protocol is spreading far wider and faster than I had thought possible.” Faeril’s eyes were distant but this time the Ice Healer was deep in thought. Considering the vision she had witnessed. For such things were tricky and all too often misinterpreted wrongly. The Black Widow seeing what she wanted instead of what was shown. Perhaps that and their reputation for dealing in poisons and underhand schemes is what really caused the decline of her sisters and not just the bribes and temptations of the twisted Queens that now were slowly gaining power? As a mug was shoved into her hands, the woman flinched at the pain. Listening to Gen putter about her workroom. He was hardly the first allowed down here, but he was the only one she allowed down in this hidden space. Friends for all her long years, they had enjoyed a fast partnership that was more akin to cousins. Save for the whole friends with benefits things they had done for a time, but even that had been for her sake. A outlet to keep her from stressing, a possibility for a child to further her line. Sipping at the brew, Faeril gave her ‘friend’ a sharp look. ”Calming brew? Really? As if I need such a thing!”

Gen’s chuckle was a deep and reassuring thing as he looked over at the woman he considered family. ”Well your snapping again, so I’m doing something right.” His cheeky grin was contagious to many but Faeril was immune as she shook her head of black hair typical of their race.

”Hmph. Gen, I must go to Helios. I will need aid to find and forge the shield that will stop the rot of Dorothea from spreading. Perhaps then we shall find time to find ourselves the sword to cut the rot out completely.” Standing the woman made it all of three steps before she found herself over a muscular shoulder. A snarl ripping from her throat as the cheap pottery cup shattered on the flagstones below. ”I can walk up a flight of damn stairs!” The infamous Faeril temper blooming as she spat a few curses against Gen’s back. His wing draping over her head and muffling her cries much to her annoyance.

Gen nodded sagely as he hauled the woman to the thick door at the base of the stairs, then up said stairway. Faeril in this state wouldn’t have made it to the first step and they both knew it. He had seen the jewel she was wearing was not her jewel of rank, the Red, but her birthright Blood-Opal. A darker version of the Opal gem and the same as he had when he was first presented at the altar. ”And tell them what? That you’re a Widow with some vision of darkness and rot that stems from one of the most influential people in the realm? Not to mention you’d be doing so while wearing your birthright.” The muffled protest was ignored. For nearly a thousand years the two had watched the Courts about the realm of Terreille fall into disarray as Queens who cared more for their gowns, riches and own pleasure took control. They had watched the rivals to these queens disappear or die off. The Black Widows doing much the same unless they aided the twisted Queens who made little to no effort to care for the land they were attached to. Gen’s golden eyes turned sorrowful as he thought of the parched and dry feel of Hyall. He had only been there once, long ago and that had been to collect a debt owed to himself, his brothers and Faeril. A debt owed by his own father, who had paid the price. For while there was no law against murder for the Blood, they was generally always a price.

Setting Faeril down on the large bed that made up her private quarters, and not the rooms she used for her clients, Gen brushed away the straight black hair. A few waves in the inky depths that hinted at her blood not being wholly Eyrien, as if the eyes were not clue enough! The Ashkevron eyes- that stunning, icy blue. They had been a trademark in the family for generations, at least one child of the next generation being born with them. Perhaps it was from the sheer love that it had taken to marry outside of the race all those eons ago? Gen was a romantic, but his taste was for another warrior and to dance on and off the killing field with them. Shaking his head at Faeril the Warlord chuckled slightly at the mulish set of her mouth as he wrapped her hands. After a time, he felt the woman relent her anger, or rather, her irritability at him. ”I shall rest and recover my strength and then we shall pack and go. There is not time to be lost!” The Black Widow declared, making Gen only smile sweetly.

”Shall I get my brothers to help with the packing while you rest til your hands are healed?” The following curse from the Healer, was met with a male roar of laughter.

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Draega was a city of towering stone buildings that shadowed the cobbled streets below. Theaters, music halls, eateries that offered all sorts of food and the many galleries of artists. Not to mention more… salacious halls for those who liked that sort of entertainment that the Queen of Hayll, Dorothea, cared to enjoy as well. The tight city had parks- what city didn’t?- but they were filled with grass that had lost the sheen of good health and trees that were stunted and sickly. Oh it was all glorious to those who willed their long lives with too many hours and pleasure at their fingertips, but Saetan SaDiablo could feel the illness that infected the Territory of Hayll, the place he was born over two thousand years ago.

Once the Queens have given back to the land, and the land had returned with bounty and life. Now Dorothea had risen to take what she desired and gave nothing but the broken husks of life back. The land returning the favor quid pro quo. Staring absently from his seat on the patio of one of the gardens that surrounded the great building that was by all accounts more than a mere ‘manor’. It rivaled SaDiablo Hall in size, though the taste was horrendous according to more than a few standards. This particular garden sported a series of pillars and weaving paths between them, but the true treat or ‘show’ was the man who was being untied from one pillar and led away. For some reason or another, a actual or perceived slight, Dorothea had seen fit to turn the man into entertainment for the day. One that he had been forced to watch with a few other key political ‘guests’ who were now pale and trying desperately to avoid giving any reason to be the next one she invited to perform.

Saetan tapped his long tinted black nails on the arm of his chair absently, giving cold smiles to the women that fluttered their eyes at him as they crooned to Dorothea about the latest gossip. Servants who barely hid shaking hands and nervous glances moved about the group offering refreshment and choice pieces to the Ladies first before the guest and then finally him. The official Prisoner of War. He had been tricked into a peace talk that had pulled him away from defending Terreille Dhemlan leaving the territory open for attack from Pruul and Raej. The queens of those territories greedy for a piece of sweeter riches than what they were getting from their salt mines and other resources. Eager at the promise of labor where kindness was optional. Both lands were harsh and while the resources were well needed and desired bringing in a fair amount of trade, why pay for labor? This thought had been urged by Dorothea. That woman who had started the entire mess by crossing the lines of Protocol, the Code that guided the Blood, to begin with! The black nails scraped against the wood of the chair threatening to shatter it as old rage boiled with the Black Jeweled Warlord Prince’s veins.

He could kill them all right here. Just by unleashing the Black and wytchfire he could burn them out of existence! A jolt of agony, however, shocked him from his thoughts of revenge. Drawing in a sharp breathe, Saetan leveled a golden glare at Dorothea who looked at him with a smug expression. Her fingers playing with the damned ring the controlled the band of compliance. It wasn't bad enough the thing was degrading, but that it would send whatever degree of pain Dorothea saw fit made him want to strangle her. If he could fight past the amount of pain the woman could, and would, level at him if he even tried to attempt it. If… If he hadn’t gone to that meeting at Felisin's, a neutral party or so he thought, request. If he hadn’t agreed to take food or drink at that ‘peace’ meeting. If he had prepared Dhemlan for such an ambush as those two snakes set against the territory he defended. ”Saetan, darling!” Dorothea’s voice had enough false sweetness in it and real desire to curdle milk beyond its years. Saetan wanted to throw the wine his nursed in one hand in her overly elaborate face. ”We were just discussing the upcoming ball tonight, and my dear Alanya is in need of an escort! We hope you would be so kind as to see that she has a splendid time.”

Saetan’s golden orbs flickered over to the slightly pale woman who looked at him like a rabid dog at a piece of meat. A likeness that was not far off the mark. Giving a charming smiled as frost lightly coated the glass he was holding, Saetan ignored the shivers of those about him. His anger making the air grow cold. ”It would be a pleasure to see her to the ball, but surely you need your own escort, Oh tyrant?” He nearly doubled over by the jolt of pain and in laughter that he held back while Dorothea sent a poisonous glare at him. The mocking comments, the underhanded funding of rebels, the slaughter of her pet Queens. He was waging his own war against the twisted woman, but it wasn’t enough. Terreille was falling into her hands as it had been for centuries. Dorothea’s pet Queens were taking over bit by bit and as much as he tried, Saetan could only slow the tide of rot.

”I believe I will enjoy Prince Darrel’s company, tonight.” A sickening smile from those overly red lips at the pale Warlord Prince of Challiot. His psychic scent reeking of fear at what he had witnessed. Challiot was the latest territory to fall to Dorothea’s little game leaving only Dene Nehele free and slowly falling. Several rogue camps of males also plagued her across the Realm. Camps that she tried to send Saetan to ‘wipe out’. The Black Jeweled Warlord Prince instead suffering punishments as he made the plans loudly and widely known so the rogue males could relocate. Saetan’s lips thinned on his handsome profile. It seemed he had little to no choice then but to play the escort. Though the man would admit he was curious as to how this ‘Alanya’ would try to seduce him. They always did after all. Eager to get a child of the Black Jewel. Something which Saetan did not permit to happen. Ever. If Dorothea got a child of his, he would never see the babe and it would be raised merely to another shackle or another tool under the twisted Priestess-Queen. Neither of which the Warlord Prince wanted for his offspring.

”Then I have the utter delight to join you this evening.” Rising from the dark chair, the man did not wait for a dismissal nor bow. Instead he braced himself against the pain that shot through him as the band of compliance burned in agony. Gritting his teeth he walked away from the gathering. Enduring each step of torture as he made his way to his room. His sanctuary and hoping it had not been violated in his absence as it had so many times before. Saetan doubted he would be able to stop himself from leaving the guilty woman who had done so as a visible message for the others. It would not be the first time he had done so, nor would it be the first time he had born the punishments that Dorothea heaped upon him. The only good coming from that would be the banishment from court. For while Dorothea loathed and fought to keep control over the Black Jeweled Warlord Prince, she did not dare kill him. The Hundred Families of Hyall, the aristo class or nobles, were failing in their dark bloodlines. Few offsprings wearing dark jewels and most far too light and weak in their psychic power. Dorothea needed Saetan, the only male to wear the Black. She needed him as a symbol and as a potential father to powerful children. The latter of which Saetan would not give her. He had fought for over a thousand years, and the man would fight til he became a Whisper in the Darkness to make sure that the bitch didn’t get what she desired.

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Faeril's hands withdrew from the pale skin of her Dea Al Mon patient, her cold eyes calm though they hid the disgust and the horror at what she had seen within her patient's mind. It wasn't what he had done, though goodness knows the Prince had his own ghosts, but rather what a member of the Hourglass had done or hadn't done. It was sheer incompetence, and it took years of practice to keep the desire to hunt down the misled 'Sister' and set the woman straight. A member of the Blood, desperate and suffering, had come to her doorstep guided by Denvar when the Eyrien had found that the Dea Al Mon was searching for a Black Widow of some skill. Of course, he hadn't wanted to bring the potential threat into her home and thus risk her. But even as one of the most stubborn caste of males, a Warlord Prince, Denvar well knew it wasn't worth his hide if his honorary sister found out he had left this fellow hurting and floundering.

"The basic 'stitches', as you could call them, are in place. Though it will require a few more treatments. The mind is a fragile thing and I would not risk you wandering down the roads to the Twisted Kingdom." The Black Widow stated softly, speaking of the madness the Blood recalled as the Twisted Kingdom. For only those mad, or who meddled with the mind would tamper with those dangerous roads. It has been irritating more than anything to find that his mind was a solid mass of walls and 'mirrors'. Fragmented memories, reflections on what was missing or what could have been taken out of context. The work was shoddy and Faeril had been disgusted at the roughness that left tattered edges about memories. The pieces frail and unraveling. Yet all could not be blamed on a mediocre workmanship, for the male also seemed to want to reject these memories. Those bits and pieces she had slowly gathered in her net. Turning over and examining each bit before setting it aside. Organizing what came first and then second in importance. The Black Widow had not been quite able to tell who the woman who was that made the memories seem lighter and full of life, nor what had caused the pain that brought tears to her eyes. Tears she now brushed away absently. Looking at these memories was like seeing something in a shattered mirror. Abstract, yet if viewed the right way it would make sense. The fragile chalice of the man's mind could be pieced together but the true healing would come from within. Bit by bit the woman had strung together the larger bits, adding a few smaller bits and pieces to secure the bridge she was building. These easy thoughts were the recent or big events in the man's life.

Now, she turned partly away from the man and gently rolled up the tangled web that held the spell she had set within his mind. While he had some seeking to forget her own search had picked up on a subtle lure within those recent events. So rather than erasing the pain, Faeril had dulled it. Fogging over the memories with a gently mist to make it seem as if it was someone else's life, but each time he thought harder on it that life would become more and more real. Perhaps it was underhanded of her, but the subtle feel of his mind only echoed with a vision she had seen not so very long ago. "Now, as for the manner of payment..." Faeril considered her options, what was the best way to keep this man close at hand for a time?

Winged Boar, Aren, Askavi
@Slim Shady
The wind rattled the winged boar that was carved on the sign outside of the rough and tumble pub, rattling the windows. A storm was getting ready to roll in and a storm could mean good business as people would look for a warm fire and drink. Or it could be the sort of storm that shook the entire building and made him need to get up the roof to patch another hole again, though Randalvar as he wiped out an ancient mug. The Winged Boar was a old tavern and showed the scars of that age. Posts that held up the ceiling were chipped and where the paint had faded showed the stone beneath. The floor was littered with small shards of pottery, glass and bits and bobs fallen from people's pockets as they scrambled out of the way when a fight broke out. As much as his granddaughter, Ellian, swept and scrubbed there was little hope for it. In better days, this place would be roaring with Eyrien warriors spreading news and trading stories. Even then, Randalvar thought with a rueful snort, fights were going to break out. Seemed to be a tradition and goodness knew how many he had gotten into himself as a stripling.

All in all though, the Winged Boar was built from the left over stone from the eyries that surrounded the building that nestled in with the rest of the small settlement. A way stop for hunting parties or warbands. The tables were solid unfinished pieces as were the various chairs and stools. The old Warlord saw no reason to waste his marks, the currency, on fancy fine works that would get smashed in the first hour because someone had to hold a pissing contest. Glancing over at the fire which was burning a bit low in the hearth, the Purple Dusk Warlord floated a fat log over the dancing flames. Sparking flaring up into the chimney as the log crashed down onto the remains of the other. "Ellian, go get to the kitchen." The winged man growled as he heard the heavy oaken door creak open. In this day and age it wasn't wise to let a young witch like his granddaughter around males. Especially when he was picking up the psychic sense that the male in particular was a Warlord Prince. It hadn't happened in Aren too often, may the Darkness be merciful! But young women and men had a way of disappearing and returning broken. Scarred by the Queens of Askavi and their twisted pleasures. Not bothering the great this newcomer, the Eyrien Warlord glanced towards the Tiger-Eye Warlord Prince who was perched in one corner nursing a particularly large tankard and looking dejected. "You need another mug, Denvar, or are you starin' at yer drink all night?" The man snapped looking peeved.

The dejected Warlord Prince shrugged absently, giving the Purple Dusk Warlord a woe begotten look. "Well, I may leave. If I do thought and Faeril isn't done, I'll just be back here and wet. Might as well just wait a bit longer and stay dry." There was a muttered word from the old man that did little to compliment the younger.

Main Road, Aren, Askavi
@Zoey White
The small village of Aren was odd to say the least. The people in Askavi seemed to build practically every house from rock and stone, line the streets with stone and not to mention the faint lights high up in the mountain sides that must be either small homesteads or house. A wind that was far more than merely brisk howled through the streets urging those few that were out in this weather to seek shelter or to find their way home, though a few stores and places of business were reluctant to close their doors. Hoping for the desperate, forgetful customer that would potentially stop by for some emergency supplies from their place of business. A smithy was glowing faintly at one end of the street, flanked by what appeared to be store selling the most general of goods on one side and a pub on the other. The glass windows of the pub looking smokey from the outside as though there had been a fire within at some point. The sign above it was the Winged Boar. In the smithy one could hear the bell like tone of a hammer striking iron, and see the figure of a large Eyrien working away at some tool or weapon.

Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll
@SilverPaw
A storm was blowing out of the Askavi mountains, the wind picking up to a ferocious speed. Travellers of all sorts were rushing ahead or turning about to try and make it to the last inn on the road. Most of the Blood would take to the Winds rather than travel on foot but there were always those that enjoyed the journey or didn't have the marks to pay for fair in a carriage on the faster Winds. Though the landing web next to the inn up the road seemed to have a row of people departing from it. It was rare, but every so often a storm would come along that could, and would, make travelling on the Winds difficult for those of the lighter Jeweled Blood. It wasn't a psychic storm, but the already treacherous Winds would become unpredictable and some would rather wait out the weather than risk themselves or their passengers. The inn itself was a fairly large building, sporting a stable and several other pens. As they were in Dhemlan, the puppet of Hayll, those pens were for livestock, of a sort. Several other small service buildings surrounded the fair grounds. A smithy, a Healers, and several farmers that sold their produce for a higher price on fair days.

A four story building, the Root's Teeth, was a cozy looking place that would have had the air of being well cared for if it wasn't for the underlying sense of terror, pain, suffering and hopelessness that permeated the grounds around it. Dark red blooms with pointed petals that were near black sprung from the ground about the building and fields. An invasive weed people called it. It could not be burned out nor destroyed, and the Darkness knew so many had tried! But Jandar would well know this 'weed' was no weed at all, but a horrible truth that wasn't spoken aloud. Witchblood was a living memento mori. A flower that only grew where a witch had been violently killed, a truth that was not forgotten in Kaeleer. Thunder clashed across the sky, as good as a call to battle that a storm was coming.

But was it merely a natural one?

Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll
@eclecticwitch
Hyall had once been a very giving land, but the land was a reflection of the Queens that ruled it. For centuries the land of Hyall had been put to the yoke of the Queens just as the people were for the pleasure of the Queens that claimed dominion. The toil farmers had to put into the land to receive so little back was something that was unheard of in those territories that still gave. Especially in the Shadow Realm of Kaeleer. It was like an itch that needed scratching to the attentive Queen, and to those who were not? It was nothing more than a mild irritant which they used to barb and prick the Court to their whims. The village of Eldan was a simple place. It's funds coming from the farms and the wool of the fat and lazy sheep that plodded about the steep hills. Those bits of land that had been given over for woodland were thick with nuts, berries, and dyes. The combination of wool and dye giving rise to a well sustained if not prosperous village's Weaver's Guild. Traders would come with supplies the village could not supply themselves and leave heaped with cloth and yarn.

Durik, the Steward for Queen Fatima, was looking over the supposed income they would be squeezing from a dry land. The sheep had a bad year due to flooding and mold in the grain. It wasn't anything they couldn't make up the next year with dropping a few new mine shafts into the nearby hillsides. However, the problem with that was the drop in the water and earth that would endure crops and sheep. Already the weavers had complained long and hard about how goats had inferior wool. Yet what more could the expect when they lost land that the herds of sheep could graze on! Running a hand through his patchy and balding hairline, the Rose jeweled Hyallian Prince groaned aloud.

"We could go and push our luck against on of the neighboring Courts for more land." The new Master of the Guard, Beneth, noted with a slight smirk. As far as anyone knew the lad was far too eager for a fight. Reasonable seeing as he was a Warlord Prince wearing the Opal. A powerful jewel in this region. Yet he had kept it hidden, resorting to his Birthright Jewel when company called. A good measure as well, if one of their number moved on it risked all their skins. The previous Master of the Guard had made that error and had 'went to visit relatives in Pruul'. Arranged per several members of Fatima's First Court. They could not risk word of their powerful Queen slipping out lest it bring the ire of the other Queens upon their heads and the heads of their families.

Hynter was already shaking his head, a mere Warlord of the Summer-sky, but he was a solid man. "And risk the District Queen or the Provincial Queen taking a look at us?" His tone was one of annoyance and contempt for Beneth, the two of them had never gotten on well at the best of time, so Durik hoped it would be headed off early before blood was shed. While he would do it himself, he didn't want to risk his neck when the rest of him was quite literally drowning in paperwork. His seat and part of the large table where a majority of the Court was gathered to argue covered in reports.

Now was the time for drinking. Dareen had been sober for a month, and frankly, that was unacceptable. It has a long walk, her feet were aching and her joints were all stiff. Dareen winced, interlacing her fingers and popping them outward. The scent of a storm was in the air, as well as that tense feeling deep in her chest. The pruulish woman pushed the loose door of the tavern aside and confidentely stepped aside, her dark eyes scanning the room.

The first thing one might notice about Dareen the first time seeing her are the markings on her face. A dark red line-dot patttern runs from her cheekbones, to the space between and above eyebrows down to the tip of her nose. If she wasn't wearing a hood, one would notice the pattern start up again behind her ears and run down the rest of her body, particularly her hands, where the markings grow ever more intricate.

The second thing one might notice is how heavily armed Dareen is. A steel saber adorns her left hip in a leather scabbard. Upon her back is a small-medium sized shield. To the right of the shield is a tight bound quiver full of a dozen or so arrows. And finally, strapped across her chest and hanging off her back is a light wooden bow. She is quite literally, strapped. A walking armory. It seems that she would rather not be that way all the time, however, for as she approached the bar Dareen nimbly slung the bow and quiver off her and rested them against the wooden structure. The woman sat down on a stool next to her bow and arrows.

"Drink, please." She politely notified the bartender. "Alcohol of some kind, preferably. An ale will do."

She leaned an elbow on the counter and leaned her back onto it, searching the room. There were a few...interesting looking characters. Dareen was most interested in a nice, secluded table so she could enjoy her drink in peace. Either way, she kept her eyes toward the rest of the room.

Her goal was to relax. She had been travelling for a month, and walking for five hours straight. Fortunately she travelled light, and had plenty of practice walking long distances. Still, it was no morning stroll from the nearest village to here. What was this town called? Aren?

Either way, she was planning on staying in town for two nights. This village had little for her in her quest. Whatever was going on, she doubted it effected this place too much. No, Dareen thought to herself. The interesting things were happening further up north, she imagined. Nonetheless, a long journey was good for the spirit.

^@LadyRunic

Mikhail had entrusted more than his own mind to Faeril. Laying there, defenseless in front of a Black Widow meant a lot, especially coming from someone who was as cautious (some would definitely say 'paranoid') as Mikhail. If one asked themselves what exactly all that meant, or what made someone like Mikhail to completely trust a total stranger they would probably be in doubt if it was solely the agonizing situation his mind was in or if he indeed trusted that Black Widow after he spoke with her and looked her in the eyes. The truth was that it was a little bit of both.

He had felt Faeril's experienced hands weaving a web made of his memories, slowly trying to make sense out of the mess of fragmented memories inside his head. Together with that, he saw those fragments, felt the emotions and feelings but they were notably more... distant. Almost as if they were memories and feelings from another person, from another life that wasn't his anymore. He was prepared from the second he laid down for the fact that he was entrusting everything he was to Faeril. But it was only during the procedure that he realized how deep that was. It was safe to assume that Faeril herself understood and knew Mikhail more than many people have always knew.

"I see... I was already prepared for this. I will be in your care for the time being." Mikhail replied after he heard Faeril's words, saying more sessions would be needed to complete the treatment. It was true that he felt noticeably better than before, but he knew that it would be difficult to heal his broken mind and get rid of the memories of the past life he rejected.

When the Black Widow mentioned payment, Mikhail lowered his head in a small and discreet bow.
"I managed to save a reasonable amount of money. If by chance it's not enough, I would gladly offer you my... services... to pay for the treatment." Mikhail said, looking directly towards Faeril's eyes. He knew very well that by now she was already aware of what exactly he was and what was his... 'job'. Yet, as much as he may dislike that, it wouldn't change the fact that she was one of the few capable of treating his condition. Not only that, but she promised complete discretion regarding his past, his identity and his 'circumstances'.

"Whatever it may be, I am ready to pay for your service." Mikhail completed, with a calm, but serious stare towards Faeril.

It had been nearly a year since her mother had passed and she had come to take control of the woman's Court. She missed the woman, though she had not spent much time with her. Queen Eilyne had been more like a friend than a mother to her. She was a rather crass person, swearing like a soldier and often making sexual remarks. She found it funny growing up. Now she realized it was likely the reason her mother had never advanced in Court. Almost a year. It still didn't seem quite real. It sometimes felt Fatima had merely gone on a trip again and when she returned her mother would pull her into a bear hug.

She brushed the last of the dark, wavy strands of her silky hair up into the intricate bun at the back of her head. The final pin in place, she observed herself in the mirror. The dress she wore had been out of fashion for at least two decades. The vibrant moss green color had not yet faded thanks to the masterful dye work of her people. The dress fit well and showed her assets spectacularly. What was it her mother used to say? 'Childbearing hips and village feeder tits.' Fatima pressed a hand over her mouth in an attempt to suppress the gale of giggles that threatened to spill out, nearly turning to tears. It would be her first day out of mourning black.

Once calmed, she took a deep breath and touched the dark circles under her eyes. She hoped the Court wouldn't notice. She had stayed up well into the morning hours in order to prepare all of her research for this meeting. There was not much she could do, so Fatima swept from the room and moved down the halls of her warm, lavishly decorated home. She settled into her chair at the table as the Court filled empty seats and discussions about their situation began.

It sounded worse than she had first thought. A frown touched the corners of her lips as she listened to each of her people speak in turn. She then felt the bristliness from Beneth and sighed. She would have to put out this fire. There was always a fire to put out it seemed. The Queen stood from her place and moved around the table until she reached Beneth. The tiny woman slid her hands over his shoulders before placing herself comfortably in his lap. Leaning forward, Fatima touched her forehead to his. "Prince," she purred softly, "All things in due time. For now, let us concentrate on fixing my lands and ensuring that my village thrives. Once we are able to take care of them, then we may consider expanding." She leaned back, an understanding smile lighting up her face.

She turned back toward the Court, not removing herself from her place on her previously snarly Master of the Guard. "I think the new mines may be a good idea, though we might need more hands in order to build and work them. There has not been much of an influx in the population, from my understanding. My greatest concern is that my people should be fed and so too the sheep." Using craft she called in a stack of books she had been looking through to gather insight. "I have found some crops which can help renew overused soils here and... here." She pulled two books from the stack. "There is also some information in these books pertaining to foodstuffs that we can grow for our people and the sheep. For example, beans. Can be dried and stored through the winter and the sheep can eat the roughage. One of the sorts of plants to help our farms flourish again. In this book, I found some information on composting, which will be very helpful." She called in a stack of papers next. "These are notes with more specifics that I gathered from my journals I kept as I traveled. They have insight from people I have encountered."

Next, she called in another stack of books. "These discuss the preserving of more perishable food items so that they may be stored and eaten in the winter months. I am sure many of our very clever ladies know what they are doing, but it would be a nice guide for those needing help to be more precise in their preservation. Also, some information to help increase our honey production. Clover, good for bees and sheep. Also an earth rejuvenator." It was now she removed herself from Berneth and walked around the table toward Durik. As she moved she said, "I am not sure how practical all of this information could be for our needs. But I would dearly love all of your input as to how to implement this. And keep my name out of it, of course." She took an empty spot beside Durik, his mound of papers nearly obscuring her face.

It had been something over a week since Jandar had arrived in Terreille, and though he’d been accompanying a dozen traders in the beginning, he’d separated from the rest in the first few days, and was now travelling by himself. Only Teo, his dapple gray, still accompanied him. It was now perhaps the third day riding on the road since the last village he’d been at, and he was eager to reach the next one. He was caught in the middle of a storm, one that was swiftly growing to a rarely-seen magnitude, with its razor-sharp winds howling at him, buffeting them and draining Teo’s stamina, the rumbling of thunder a constant. Mother night, it would be just my luck for us to get caught in the downpour! Jandar knew they should proceed swiftly if he didn’t want to get drenched or worse – which he patently did not.

So, he urged Teo into a gallop with a sharp “Hiyah!”, leaning down right next to the horse’s neck to lessen the effect of wind resistance. It seemed like hours before the Dhemlan male made it to the next village, though it could have easily been no more than half an hour; the journey was grueling in any case. Teo slowed down to a more appropriate walk as they joined the group of pedestrians frantic to either get inside or leave, and Jandar dismounted, leading his steed to the nearby stable, his pale golden eyes flicking from building to building. He took in the inn, the pens alongside the stables was taking Teo to, the service buildings, and…Jandar had to fight against the instinctual scowling growl that was trying to burst out furiously out of his chest into a proper scream at the sight of that four-story building and its decoration. He barely kept his face blank enough to pass as neutral at the travesty the literal fields of Witchblood represented.

He turned away from the proof of Terreille’s corruption, the crimes that must have happened here. Jandar was of a mind to call it evil, no matter his dislike for absolutes, because the atrocities, oh, the atrocities that must have led to Witchblood flourishing so! Hell’s fire! And may anyone responsible become a mere Whisper and be erased from history! He clutched at the Blood Opal he kept tucked under his shirt and secured to a leather necklace alongside some wolf teeth and a couple of broken-off parts of deer antlers he’d also attached to the jewelry – meaningless trophies, but they fit with the guise of him supposedly making his living as a hunter. His Red jewel was hidden in his personal pocket-dimension where he’d vanished it using his Craft, so his psychic scent would reveal him to others as a Blood Opal Warlord at most. Even with this precaution, Jandar had already noticed a few of the Terreille natives eyeing him with greed, a fact that deeply discomfited him. However, there was nothing to it aside from remaining cautious and observant.

With a roll of his shoulders Jandar entered the stable, and led Teo into one of the empty stalls, swung his backpack across a shoulder, and removed Teo’s saddle and reins which he hung on a nearby hook. “Kick anyone who tries to steal you or our belongings, won’t you, boy?” he murmured to Teo, who nickered in response, then proceeded to water and feed himself from the troughs attached to the stall. As Teo did so, Jandar brushed his coat of the accumulated grime and dust. “I’ll bring you a treat later,” Jandar promised as he patted the steed on the snout, leaving it to its well-deserved rest.

The dark-haired golden-eyed male then ventured back outside, where the storm was still raging. Most of the people had already taken cover, but there was still a line of departing folk at the landing webs next to the inn. The winds were becoming ever more violent, the thunder crying its outrage, an echo of Jandar’s own emotions; his deep sorrow at the memory of the Witchblood still seared into his mind. He avoided looking at the actual flowers, yet the memory was almost worse, sneaking upon him when he least expected it – he was certain the Witchblood would become a prominent part of the occasional nightmare, perhaps there to haunt him the following night already. To distract himself, Jandar focused on the wind mussing his hair, tugging at his clothes, and almost making him sway a little with how forceful it was now, but disregarded the inconvenience, closed his eyes, and simply listened. He heard quiet mutters from those attempting to depart via the Winds, but unless anything peculiar caught his interest, he would focus his Craft to listen to the storm itself. It was a turbulent one, and the first strikes of lightning and rain were starting up. Could it be a sign? If he was not mistaken, the storm was blowing from the Askavi mountains. Is that where he should head? Was it a mere coincidence? Or was it the hint of something much more ominous? Regardless of what he heard, he had to take cover, and the inn would be convenient enough.

Teo stabled and as comfortable as he would be, Jandar payed for his own accommodations as well; a small room, but despite the meagre and rickety wooden furniture within, it also had a window which Jandar could use to observe the village’s main street from. A casual glance outside revealed several stragglers still cluttered at the landing webs, obviously impatient to travel elsewhere, but perhaps unable to do so on their own power. Jandar shook his head in exasperation at Terreille in general, a feeling all the more acute since he’d took it on himself to travel the lightest Realm. With a near-silent sigh, the Kaeleer native set to washing himself and the sweaty clothing, then put the latter out to dry as he dressed into another set of second-handed apparel – none of the clothing he’d taken with him was what one of the Aristo would usually wear, but then, that was the point. Here, he was a trader, hunter, traveler. Nothing but an unknown Warlord, though the Terreille inhabitants might consider the Blood Opal they'd sense on him to be a sign of great power. That, however, was not something the Dhemlan intended to concern himself with for the moment.

Jandar set his bow, quiver, and sheathed sabre aside next to the small dresser, but kept the hunter knife on his person as he left the privacy of his rented room (locking the door behind him) to join the hubbub of the inn’s main room. He sat himself at the bar, ordered a simple meal and ale, set an elbow to the counter and propped his chin and jaw on the palm of his hand. He forced his gaze to set on the nearest patron in an apparently lazy manner, nodded curtly at them, and muttered a gruff comment. “Terrible weather,” he noted, affecting a rougher, slightly deeper tone than his usual smooth cadence. “Bad for business,” he continued, as if all he wanted was a simple, casual chat while he waited for his meal to be done. He huffed, adding a correction to his generalization. “Well, s’not awful for places like this, ‘course,” he did not grin, but rather conveyed amusement with his voice and a twitch of his lip corners alone. “Wonder if it’ll last long,” he stated, then dug into the plain gruel set before him, washing it down liberally with the slightly better-tasting ale.

The trip through Aren, Askavi was lonely and tiring to say the least, as being on the run from the law constantly always made you look over your shoulder. Years ago he wouldn't be so worried, a bold and confident man with many allies by his side, now reduced to being a rogue who could have a sword pulled on him if he walked into the wrong place at the wrong time. These days he wasn't as active in his attempts to fight the power, often keeping to himself and doing what he could to survive. Most of the time this was stealing, either discreetly or by force, to get what he needed day to day. His assets that he had on him were all but run out, and the rest were taken by the Queen herself. Greedy bitch. His name was torn apart as a traitor, and while some still thought highly of him, many were now under the thumb of the twisted Queens. Whether they believed it or not, if Xandar was an enemy of the Queen, he was the enemy of his own people. Time was running out, and he was running very low on options. The reason he was walking through these parts was to find the name of the person by the name of Randalvar. His friend Handovar, who was a close ally for years, had told him of his father and the Winged Boar before his death. Randalvar was a Warlord who owned the place, and while he was hear mostly to spread the news of Handovar, hopefully he could help him with his movement. Or at the very least, find him a decent healer. A few days back he had attempted to assassinate one of the twisted Queens. This had proven unsuccessful, clearly being outnumbered, and he had managed to get out of their alive and not under capture. Not without a fight, and he did manage to damage or kill people within her inner circle. However, the injuries he sustained were serious enough that he could not go about his business as usual. He needed help, as much as he hated the idea.

As the storm as about to pour from the heavens, Xandar stepped through the entrance of the Winged Boar. A terrible thunder shook as he stepped in, some rain already pouring outside as his figure was lit up by the lightning. Standing at 6'7" and weighing 247 pounds of intense muscle, it was clear that he was an Eyrien warrior by that fact alone. However, Xandar wore a black cloak that covered most of his large frame, his hood covering the majority of his face in it's shadow. When the lightning flashed, his dark gold skin on his face was revealed for a split second. His much brighter gold eyes stared out from behind his hood, slowly scanning the room around him. There were two individuals in his immediate vicinity, both possessing some aura of power to them. A tiger-eyed warlord prince was holed up in the corner with a mug, and it was clear that this was not the man who he was looking for. That man only got so much as a glare from Xandar before his eyes turned to the older man behind the counter. The purple dusk warlord, this was the man he would be looking for, and he could only assume this was Randalvar. Xandar took a seat on the bar stool in front of the Warlord, making eye contact. There was no doubt in his mind that he had sensed him and who he was, especially when he pulled back his hood just enough to reveal his face to Randalvar.

"I assume you're the owner of this bar, Lord Randalvar." he said in a hushed tone, sighing softly. "I'm not here to start trouble as many have done before I can imagine. I come bearing news that I wish I did not have to give, but you deserve the truth. Your son, Handovar, was a close ally of mine and I considered him a brother on the battlefield. However, fate was not so kind to that man, and he died for the cause that he believed in, joining my band. I mourned his loss and avenged him by my own hand, but I try my hardest to try and continue what your son had fought for. Sadly I have been unsuccessful as of late, barely managing staying alive myself as all my men have all but died, left, or been captured. I come here to tell you that your son died an honorable man in glorious combat, and that his will lives on within me." Xandar said, taking a moment of silence as he looked up at the ceiling of the bar. He would give anything to have a friend in this world like Handovar, but Xandar's fate was almost just as cruel, living in this empty world where everybody seemed to be an enemy. Xandar's hands were folded on the counter, and there was a faint glint of sapphire coming from his right ring finger. He let the father take his time to process the information before he spoke again.

"The other reason why I was here to ask you for some information, and I would not be so willing to ask for help if the situation did not call for it. I have some... injuries. Something worse than I can handle on my own. Before I can go on without my agenda, I need to make sure I don't keel over days from now from an untreated injury. You wouldn't know of anybody that could help, would you?" Xandar said, his voice almost a whisper as even he didn't want to hear himself speak these words. He absolutely hated the notion of relying on others to be alright, but at this point there was no other choice. His pride would get him killed one of thee days, and he needed to stay humble long enough to be on his way. "Let's just say my latest escapade did not go exactly as planned."

A few moments later, a woman quite literally armed to the teeth had entered the tavern. To be fair, Xandar did carry three blades, armor, and a bow and arrow. Most of this was concealed by the cloak however, the bow and long swords strapped across his large back, his large sword in the scabbard on his left hip and the quiver hanging from his right hip. However, it was very clear that this woman wanted to be seen armed and dangerous with a sword, shield, and bow. There were markings on her face, and she seemed to walk with a confidence while scanning the room. Xandar gave almost a chuckle, but simply kept to himself as he only looked for a split second before turning his head back to face the bar. The woman had sat near him however, and made it clear that she wanted some alcohol. As one did. He ignored any glance she may or may not have gave him, hearing the sound of the bow clack against the wood as she set it down. If this was one of the Queen's people come to pay him a visit he would lose it, although he very much doubted this was the case. Some random person passing by he imagined. The warlord prince in the corner hadn't spoken a word yet either, and it seemed almost too peaceful to be a normal day. Xandar had a feeling this peace wouldn't be kept long, as the storm would attract more and more business as people looked for shelter and a drink.

Xandar covered his face with his hands, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. The barkeep at least hadn't seemed to garnish any hate towards him for what happened to Handovar, but it was a shot in the dark whether the man would be helpful to Xandar or not. These days were getting worse by the minute, and he was half tempted to ask for an ale of his own.

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The woman merely nodded as she tied the strings that would hold the web close and slid into a wooden tube to further protect the delicate spell. Faeril had her own reasons for wanting to keel Mikhail near and it was not merely in his best interest. As a Black Widow and one of particular skill she had kept herself alive despite the pet Queens of Dorothea seeking out her sisters to ensnare into their courts or execute for defying them. A wonder they had never come knocking on her door, but with her Aunt's death Faeril had never advertised what she was. The people of Aren had aided as well by carefully turning away those whose interest was less than business. The village did not have a direct Queen holding her hand over it and all the better for that small blessing. Randalvar in the Winged Boar was her primary source of customers. The old warrior had a sixth sense about people and if they saw her of went missing he made sure he didn't know enough details to say more than they had left his bar- alone. If Gen or one of his brothers had followed them out...? Well, Randalvar made a point not to notice, he did have his tankards and glasses to keep clean. The man was as stoic as they came and if rumors were true he had a bigger bone to pick as he had, potentially, been a lover of her aunt before the woman's death.

That was neither here or there, however. Turning her blue gaze that spoke of ancestors that were not of Eyrien or the long lived races, the Black Widow and Healer studied the assassin offered his services. "Your services will do for a time until the treatment is complete." A wiry smirk that was far from comforting gracing her lips as she arched a dark brow. "After all, you will be staying here for a time and need to maintain your keep as you will be eating my food and needlessly drinking my ale. There is plenty of firewood to be chopped and mulch to be made." The woman pointed out while her smile turned to something more jesting. "When you are healed we will speak of your payment." And may the Darkness be merciful and let the one she was waiting for reach her before then. At the end of the day, this entire business would garner her nothing but it would potentially fuel the fire for hope and vengance, which would be enough.

Winged Boar, Aren, Askavi
@Slim Shady @Zoey White
Rnadalvar studied the man who walked into the tavern, his psychic scent screaming Warlord Prince as he scanned the room before finally choosing a seat at the bar. Though the words the man spoke stuck the old warrior like a blow, though the neutral face turned grim as he turned away from his customer to release the tap on a keg of ale and let it fill the freshly cleaned glass. In truth the man needed a moment to collect himself after the ground had been swept out from under him. Handovar had been a good fighter and a strong Warlord. Wearing the Summer-sky while being a fighter was dangerous and he had said as much. Foolish boy to ignore him.

Setting the tankard in front of the Eyrien Warlord Prince, he noted Denvar's pointed look and gave a muted shake of his head. This wasn't an enemy. The name Xandar Markov was well known enough from how the Eyrien Queens railed for his capture, sending men out after him and promising rewards that anyone would crave in times like these. Denvar settled back in his chair, raising his ale to his lip and taking a long draw from the tankard. Turning his gaze back to the rogue Warlord Prince as a woman slipped into the tavern, the grizzled old warrior slid a second, less clean tankard down to the woman. A woman bearing weapons at that. He briefly considered letting Denvar take that one up to Ashkevron's residence to see what their local Black Widow would think of her. "He fought bravely and died for his cause. An Eyrien's death." The man stated firmly as he let loose a brazen chuckle at the Ebon-Grey Warlord Prince's reaction to his neighbor. The man was wearing a Sapphire Jewel Randalvar noted. A wise move while in town. Picking up another tankard, the old Warlord began cleaning it out again. "If yer looking for somethin' you might want to go talk to the cringing bastard in the corner. He'll take you to our local Healer." There was a strange glint in the man's eye as he chuckled darkly. "The Lady will put you to rights. One way or the other. Though you may not like how 'right' leaves you." Keeping to the Eyrien tongue the grizzled old man continued. "An' take this here lass with ye. Aint normal for a witch to be carrying weapons. The Lady will want to have a 'chat' with 'er." Denvar gave a choking cough as he sat up, his feet thudding on the floor as he glared at old Randalvar.

Root's Teeth, Dhemlan Terreille
@SilverPaw
The Root's Teeth was a well cared for establishment if only because it seemed to house mainly the aristo in the seasons when the pens outside would be full and the witchblood would bloom. In it's off season it was a rest stop, a place where the Blood could pause in their travels for a roof over their head and a warm meal. However, Jandar would get the barest of hints of a underlying psychic scent that would seem off though he could not pin it down. Even in a tavern full of people while a storm howled outside there was an air of unease. The landing web outside was mostly clear now as the last stragglers dropped from the Winds and moved inside the Root's Teeth looking for room and board. While the storm may cause trouble for others, it was a blessing for the inn.

The man sitting next to the Warlord was a Prince his Tiger-Eye Jewel worn openly as was typical of the Blood. It was how their intricate game of power was played. A well kept man though his clothes had seen better days and the weight hung off him as though he once had more weight than he did. "Most likely it will blow over by the morning." The man stated with a dreariness in his voice. "I don't know how the Eyriens stand it up in their mountains but they weather storms like these for fun." There was a edge to the Prince's voice as he stared blankly into his tankard. A young witch stepping carefully behind the bar shakily set a bowl of stew and a tankard of ale in front of Jandar before retreating with speed though trying not to run or garner his attention.

The crowd behind them shifted about as people vied for rooms, a small finger moving through the opening and closing gaps. Jandar would notice the figure heading to the door facing the stables. A quick entrance for the grooms and such. Their clothing didn't appear to be worn so much as ragged and patched. The black hair and gold eyes of the long lived races were prominent features that were easily noticed before the figure slipped out the door.

Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll
@eclecticwitch
The Master of the Guard gave a predatory growl deep in his throat as Fatima ordered him to wait and bide his time. Waiting for their people to be stronger. This made the Court shift anxiously. They were far older than Fatima in general, and they highly doubted there would be any 'thriving' for this village. Durik, for one, was moving into his twilight years. The grey of his black hair showing in threads here and there. The Steward had seen the rise of Dorothea and had not opposed the woman, ensuring his own safety in fact, as well as those of his brother's family. That said brother was buried in some unknown grave, having been a tool in a game between queens. A pawn that had been sacrificed. His nephews had too been pressed into joining the Courts, despite Durik's best efforts. His sister-in-law and her daughter had been plucked away powerful Warlord Princes. The Steward didn't bother to think upon their fate, it was an unwelcome thought and only served to weigh him down with guilt.

Wrapping a strong arm about Fatima's waist, Beneth gave Hynter a sneer. The other Summer-Sky Warlord looking away as to avoid a fight with the Opal Warlord Prince. Heaving a sigh of relief Durik looked over the books Fatima had procured. These were battered copies, but the idea was a decent one. "The problem also lies with the fact the land is dry." It was not Durik who spoke, but his second- and soon to be replacement- Garren. The Preist was a quiet sort, with a long face and longer limbs. Looking enough like a crane that his White jewel was nearly over looked. While he was not a powerhouse, Garren was clever and could keep a book nearly as well as the aged Durik. "Drained." The man stressed, his hands emphasizing his point. "We can plant and grow, and try all we like. Let our land heal, and our neighbors will come in and take it." The soft voice was bitter, with good reason. Garren had suffered under Fatima's mother. Often being sent off to appease the neighbors. Neighbors he now loathed.

Durik nodded in reluctant agreement. "He has a valid point, Lady." The Steward said carefully. "But these beans will help, and the mine can be staffed by those- relocating- from other villages." Beneth was shaking his head, but Durik already had a counter to the worry of a threat slipping in. "Several of our folk have moved away to find only ill. What harm would there be in welcoming them back? Surely it would curry good will?"

It was the second eldest of the group, Jassen, who rubbed a hand through his own slightly grey locks. "If only we could consult the tangled webs." His cheeks were red and blotchy from drink as his words bordered on outright treason as he spoke of how the Black Widows looked into the void of time. Jassen had become a drunk in the past years, attesting a relationship at least on his end.

Jandar eyed the Tiger-Eye Prince who replied, noting the few observable details about him. The suffering of Terreille had affected him just as it had most of its residents; the man has obviously been lacking proper nutritious food for a while. No wonder the trade is what it is here. The Prince was well-kept and yet, he hadn’t seen fit to have new clothes tailored for him. Losing faith, perhaps? The other male did not seem to care for the storm but neither did he show interest at the fact that the weather would be better by tomorrow – or as he claimed it would be, at the very least. Perhaps a specific loss he experienced…or a general apathy? Then the grudge against Eyriens... Jandar did not allow for any hints of his pondering to show on his face or in his tone as he replied to the Prince.

“Good. Don’t wan’ta be stuck in one place too long,” he admitted, keeping his voice to a slightly growling rumble that fit his current persona. The fact he hadn’t intended to be in this particular inn for more than a day or two was a piece of harmless truth he had no misgivings in revealing, but then again, the first rule in lying was always keeping as close to the truth as one could in any case. “Can’t blame the feaver-brains for finkin’ wiv their wings, hn?” he chuckled, injecting a mocking lilt to the sound that the Prince might take for an agreement with whatever cause the male had to speak of the winged race so venomously – if Jandar was fortunate, the male might even choose to divulge another personal tidbit. He also took a brief moment to discreetly check whether there were any Eyriens in hearing range of his insult, as though he’d not meant it, he could very well get in trouble with an Eyrien if they heard him say as much. And if there were to be a fight, Jandar preferred to see it coming.

In the slight lull of the conversation that followed, a time the Warlord took to enjoy his meal as well as one designed to allow the Tiger-Eye jeweled man to gather his thoughts or answer as he might please, Jandar watched for another sighting of the serving witch who’d offered him his meal. She’d been afraid, terrified really – perhaps she knew the reasons behind the off-putting psychic scent Jandar sensed but could not place the origin of? That would certainly bear investigation – anyone with cause to put such effort into making themselves unassuming did. This line of thought was disrupted when he sensed the crowds shifting around the bar he was sitting at, and Jandar noticed a small golden-eyed dark-eyed figure dressed in rags – either a Hyllian or a Dhemlan, as he hadn’t seen any wings – dance their way through the crowd, heading for the stables. Jandar certainly wanted to see what that was all about – whether the person was truly simply one of the inn’s affiliates or not – but following right away would be unadvised at best and might disastrously attract the wrong kind of attention to him at worst.

As it was, he took a moment to finish the meal, ale, and his conversation with the Prince, if his temporary conversation partner had any more to offer. Then, after thoroughly cleaning the last bits of stew off his plate and chasing the scant drops of ale with his tongue as he shook the mug over his mouth, he made his farewells. “Jean,” he gruffly introduced himself to the Prince with a distantly polite nod as he set the empty plate and mug back on the counter to be taken away by whichever of the inn’s employees was responsible for cleaning – and if it happened to be the same as the witch who’d served him in the first place…Well. Jandar intended to find and follow her to the kitchens in any case. “I’m off to visit ‘at pre’y witch,” he confided with a sly smirk, letting the Prince draw his own conclusions as he would.

Truly, that was exactly what he intended to do, though not quite for the purpose he might have led the other male to believe. Jandar stood up, ambling his way through the crowd, roughly showing away any who did not make scarce at the fierce glower he’d slapped onto his face. He searched for the door to the kitchens, storeroom, or whatever similar backroom space the inn surely employed to prepare the meals and such, then knocked on it firmly once he found it, regardless if the door was closed or not. Whichever serving personnel appeared, Jandar affected a small but pleasant smile, and announced in a low, grumbling, but pleased tone “Wanted t’offer my ‘ppreciation to the cook. An’ ask if you ‘ave a nice apple? For my ‘orse,” he clarified with a slow, sated blink as he inspected both the person and whatever he might see in the room behind them.

Dareen caught the ale and returned her gaze the rest of the room, now taking occasional sips from the drink. Mug was a bit dirty, wasn't it? Didn't matter. Get what you pay for. As she faced away from the counter and scanned the room, her free hand's index finger slowly traced the markings on her thigh, her fingertip running across the cloth of her pantleg. She let her thoughts wander for a little bit, and was just beginning to let her guard down. The hulking armored figure next to her seemed to not mind- though generally people like him were in league with the Queen in Dareen's experience. Still, no reason to start causing trouble.

The bartender and the hulking figure were speaking Eryien, talking in hushed tones. Something personal, probably. Or something mischevious. Perhaps cooking up some nefarious plot. It was hard to tell. Still, it hardly relaxed her. Speaking common was a courtesy in a public place of business- especially one where travellers often met.

Hypocrite, Dareen chastised herself. You of all people have no reason to complain of courtesy. How many people did you kill, without even being sure as to why? Did you give them common courtesy? Her eyes unfocused as she became absorbed in her brooding. Frustrated with herself, she leaned her arm back and set the tankard back on the counter. Unfortunately, distracted as she was, she misplaced the cup- it was less than half on the counter when she let go. Thus, it tipped off the wooden top and clattered to the floor, sending the alocohol this way in that and staining the wood.

"Oops." Dareen said blandly, concealing the turmoil underneath. Cooly as possible, she asked the bartender for a clothe. She grabbed the tankard and set it up on the counter, now almost completely empty. At least it gave her something else to think about. Now she could go back to worrying about her surroundings, rather than what loomed inside her.

^@LadyRunic

Mikhail carefully listened to what Faeril was speaking. Not everyone was interested in money, so it was understandable that she preferred to make use of his services for the time being, but the part that made him raise his eyebrows was when she mentioned that they would discuss the payment after he was healed. Still, a deal was a deal and no matter what happened, she was the only one who could cure his 'condition' so he didn't have many choices regarding that fact.

"I must remind you though that time is a precious thing for us Dea Al Mon as we do not have a lifespan as long as the long-lived races." Mikhail said, with a serious look, carefully analyzing Faeril's reactions to what he had just said. Many things could be interpreted from what Mikhail had just said, but it was clear that he was referring only to his race's lifespan compared to hers. After looking through his memories, it was clear to Faeril that the last thing he wanted was being the prisoner of someone else's wishes, desires and whims.

"But still, a deal is a deal. I will be under your care for the time being." he said, with a discreet bow towards Faeril, clearly waiting for any order or task for him to do.

He knew there were others living on that same house, he could only hope for them to not cause too much trouble regarding his stay though...

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Just as she suspected there might be, the Court had much doubt. She did not blame them. When was the last time any of the lands, including her own, and provided a bountiful harvest? It was extremely frustrating as a Queen to see her people and her lands in such a state. While she loved her mother, she also cursed her irresponsibility. Fatima rubbed a hand over her tired brow. "Of course. All people are welcome here and we shall do our best to protect and nourish them." It was a whispered statement, one that hinted at the knowledge that too many could mean their downfall. But Fatima could not bear to see the look on a battered and starving child's face if there was something she could do to help them.

"I know my lands are not ideal. It will take much work." She laid her hands on her lap and grasped them tightly together. Her knuckles turned white and her nails bit into the backs of her palms. "I will use what money I have and will dress the beggar to work in the fields myself if it means that my people should survive one more day." The tone was bitter and defeated. "It would not be the first time I have bled for the lands or gone hungry." She wondered sometimes if they forgot that she had also been through similar hardships when she had run away for those fifty years. There were whip marks on her own back, and scars on her hands from having never used farm equipment before. She had shared in the tears of both the Blood and the landen. Then, how could they forget? She was sure she had worried them during that time.

She lifted tired eyes in shock when Jassen mentioned the tangled web. Her entire body stiffened and she felt the cool caution that filled the room. Yes. The tangled web. She had heard rumors of witches who could weave and read it. Something so terrifying could be of extreme use to them now. And she had an idea of someone she might speak to in order to get close to such a woman.

Fatima rose from her seat and approached the drunk. A slender hand touched his cheek and lifted his face so she could look into his bloodshot eyes. "Jassen, my darling," she murmured, her face a concerned frown. "I beg that you never speak those words in the open again." She stroked the cheek gently before moving toward her original place at the front of the room.

"I think, perhaps I should travel at least once more." She folded bleeding hands in front of her as she looked upon her court with an expression she hoped was queenly certainty. "Just once more. Durik, you are in charge of choosing one to accompany me on this trip. I hope it should take no more than a couple of weeks. You and Garren will be in charge of implementing some of the things we have discussed. I have complete faith that you will know what information will be useful. You also have my leave to use what is necessary from my coffers to ensure this can be done properly. I leave you all, much more knowledgeable on these things, to continue this discussion. I will make preparations for my journey." She inclined her head slightly and then swept from the room before they could tell her such a trip was ill-advised.

This she knew. But not going on this trip would be worse. As much as Fatima loved to travel, she promised herself it would be the last time she would leave her land until she got it operating in all of the ways she saw fit. It was not as if she would need much for it. Perhaps a handful of coin, her old, tattered clothes, and her tent for sleeping out under the stars. She was practiced in staying under the radar. Fatima would do anything for her people.

Xandar nodded at the older man, finishing off his mug and sliding it gently away from him. It seemed the lord was not terribly angry at him over the death of his son, although it seemed it did take him a moment to get his bearings. But like many of their race, death and war was part of their heritage, and people dying in battle was non an unusual occurrence. The Eyrien race was almost desensitized to death itself, becoming part of their culture, the dream was to die a glorious death fighting for what you believed in. Although frankly Xandar was not ready to die just yet.

The warlord prince stretched and nodded as Randalvar gestured to Denvar. It seemed that the brooding man in the corner who was questionably sober would guide him to what he was looking for. Or at least, what he had hoped for. A rogue warlord prince with lots of capture bounties on his head could never be too cautious of people. He hadn't made it this far believing everything that strangers told him. However, he was slowly running out of options and these were the friendliest faces he had seen in months, which was almost hard to believe. As he was lost in thought he turned to see the woman next to him spill the contents of her drink all over the floor in what appeared to be a clumsy accident. Dear lord, this was the person he was supposed to take with him to see the local healer? Hopefully she was specialized in brain cells, because it looked like this one might be lacking. A sigh blew out his lips before nodding to the bartender, standing up from his stool and looking over toward the other warlord prince. "Well, as long as right is better than my current state, I have no room to complain." Xandar said in his Eyrien tongue, taking a step or two towards Denvar. "Xandar Markov. It's a pleasure." the man said, giving a bit of a nod towards him in respect. Normally he was never this nice to anybody, but in this instance it would be unwise to be rude to the people helping you.

"Well there's no rush, but I'm ready to now if you like." Xandar mentioned, before turning around to face the woman in the room. His tongue switched to common, and his voice was commanding more than questioning. "Woman. If you know what's good for you, I'd suggest you come with us. There's somebody who wants to see you, and they're not taking no for an answer. Keep your mouth shut, nod your head, and you'll be fine." Xandar said to Dareen, his bright eyes looking straight into her as his words echoed in the room. His expression turned ever so softer as he gave a nod towards Randalvar and spoke in Eyrien once more. "I appreciate your kindness. If there's anything you would need from me feel free to ask."

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The Ice Healer, as some had nicknamed her, chuckled lightly. There was still a hardness in her blue eyes that gave made folk all to aware of the coldness she cloaked herself in. "I am well aware of your limitations in time, Prince Mikhail. No, your treatment will take time but it will not take so much you live out your life as my test subject." There was a wicked glint in the woman's eye as one corner of her mouth turned up into a sly smirk as she looked towards the door that opened up into the main hallway that ran through the eyrie. "I have Gennar for such things." She called with a slight edge of annoyance to her tone.

The said Eyrien Warlord lounged outside in the hall and was looking in with a face that was falsely innocent. "Did you need something, Ashke? Or can I rescue that poor fellow from your clutches?" The witch looked disgusted with the man as she slid the web and it's container into a large cabinet that took up one part of the stone wall that was in actuality the mountain itself. Flicking her wings that rustled with a irritated noise, she flicked a hand is dismissal. Grinning Gen pushed his luck as he moved to lean in the door frame. "Does this mean you're going to rest?"

"I do rest. Now shoo." Faeril's blue eyes narrowed at the larger Eyrien, her fingers poking him in the chest as the man merely arched a eyebrow. He was well aware he could have a snaketooth sink into his skin through his shirt and that would most likely be the last anyone ever heard of him. Still he just gave his younger friend a sweeping bow as she slipped away to begin another aspect of her labor. Most likely to tend to her garden, Gen hoped. It would do her good to stop spinning the tangled webs and seeking a hope that would come when it came. Turning his attention to Mikhail he offered that the Dea Al Mon follow him with a jerk of his head. "Suppose you could probably do with some food after that? I'd make Faeril something to eat, but the woman would only toss it off the side of the mountain." Outright grinning, the protector of Faeril Ashkevron offered a hand. He had been there when Mikhail had come to the house but maintain the presence of a brooding and vicious Warlord. "Gennar Saroth."

Winged Boar, Aren, Askavi
@Slim Shady @Zoey White
Denvar gave a slight nod as the Sapphire Warlord Prince nodded to him, offering up a name that made Denvar question the wisdom in letting him cross paths with Faeril. While she wasn't family by blood, she was treated as such by his brothers and himself. So it was only natural that Denvar was worried about letting a Ebon-Grey Warlord Prince that could well wring his sister's neck without much trouble aside from what Faeril would do. Wincing at what Faeril might do when faced with healing and aiding this man, Denvar nodded back as he fought to catch his breathe. He wasn't so young as to be a fool, but both his brother and he were older than Faeril in years. Mentally? He wouldn't lie. He was a randy youth who danced on folly's line a few times too many. One of the reasons he had been punted down here by a snarly Healer who was sick of him getting underfoot for trying to help.

"Denvar." He offered in return. Xandar was not a common name, but it was a well known one. The twisted pets of Dorothea and Askavi's queen Ollirian were eager to catch the man alive. He had too much power to waste and would make a better trophy alive than dead. If he bent to their will? They would have a weapon that could even match the infamous Sadist potentially. But then Eyriens thought they could match anyone with their legendary arrogance. Looking at the woman, he prepared to cover the exit if need be and prevent escape. Though it was doubtful she would make it that far.

Randalvar, being a wise and thoughtful individual who was rather tired of building replacement furniture for his bar, subtly cast a Purple Dusk strength shield over his bar that only was a hairs breathe from the wood. A second shield blocked off the door that lead into the kitchens where his granddaughter was. Protective in his nature he was loath to let even a potential fight reach the last of his bloodline. "Might as well go with 'im, lass." He advised while placed a clean mug on the shelf behind him and began wiping out another one.

Root's Teeth, Dhemlan Terreille
@SilverPaw
The Prince said little more aside from nodding absently. It wasn't that the man was trying to be rude, but his misery was just so deep. There were a few like him, broken from within though their Jewels were still whole. As the Jandar finished with his meal the same witch did appear and quickly whisk away the remains. Given the amount of people in the inn, and the several other serving ladies and lads that were also acting in the same nervous manner, meals were streaming out of the kitchen just as fast as they could get the plates and utensils clean. While weather like this was not particularly good for the false business Jandar was about on, it was very good for the inn. They would sell many rooms and most likely spaces on the floor this night.

The crowed let 'Jean' pass without much trouble save for the occasional shove back and cursed insult for his own rude passage. It was with luck that no one challenged the Warlord as he made his way after the maid who only appeared to grow more nervous as she noticed her tail. While fighting his way through the throng of bodies, Jandar might notice a man leaning by the hearth. His mop of black hair combed back away from a too pale face and a nose that had been broken before. A predatory smile gracing his lips as he smiled nastily towards the Kaeleer native. Though there was a sickening approval in the man's eyes.

The door to the kitchen was being opened and shut regularly so when the Warlord knocked it didn't take long for a older woman with stern features and wielding a ladle to open it. Her dress was stained and dusted liberally with flour despite an apron and her iron grey hair was pulled back in a tight bun. The White Jeweled cook regarded Jandar with cold gold eyes. "Can I help you, Lord?" Her voice was polite but terse and trimmed with an edge of fear. While he delivered his message, she studied him closer. Behind her Jandar would see a bustling kitchen with the heavenly smells of baking bread and stew to fill the air. Giving a annoyed sniff, the witch nodded slightly. "Thank you, but I would advise you leave my kitchen be. You are slowing us down." She snapped sharply before quite firmly shutting the door without slamming it. Startling several servers who had been hovering just out of reach while Jandar blocked the entrance to the kitchen.

One witch with a Opal whispered softly to Jandar as she squeezed by him to the door. "Don't mind Cook. She's just busy and you gave Alda quite the fright following her." Shoving a carrot into his hands under her tray, she gave Jandar a tired and weak smile. "Go feed your horse, and stay in your room before you attract the wrong sort of attention." With the last whispered word of advice the witch darted into the kitchen, as someone shouted within the domain of 'Cook'.

Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll
@eclecticwitch

A timid knock sounded on Fatima's door before a timid maid entered. While her mother had been a hard and demanding woman, Fatima was much easier to work with- for the most part. The young Queen was quite odd, but she was not cruel or over demanding like some of the other queens were in Hyall. Chewing her lip, Illyria stared at the bags that were partly packed while trying to figure out what exactly to say. It wasn't her place to say anything at all, but she had heard the plans while she had been sweeping out the hallway and well that just wasn't proper at all!

"My Lady, I might know someone... Though, I beg you swear on your Jewels to never repeat this to a soul?" With large and frightened gold eyes, Illyria absent began to organize the packs. Her gaze darting between her task and looking up at Fatima. "It- You say you are travelling?" Randomly redirecting the conversation, the tiny maid was worrying her lip bloody with nerves "Where to? If I may ask that is? My apologies, but Lady we cannot lose you!" There was true fright to the maid as she gripped a tattered dress in both hands nearly wringing the poor thing lifeless. If it had a life to start with.

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She was placing some necessary, womanly items into a bag (hairbrush, soap, perfume) when there came a knock at her door. She paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Come in," she called lightly. A young maid entered all nervous and unsure. Fatima gave her one of her famous, charming smiles. "What can I do for you?" she asked softly, turning away from the bags to watch the girl carefully. She mentioned potentially knowing a person. A person who what? In what way could this person be helpful?

Finally, the girl got the nerve to speak up on her thoughts about her Queen leaving her land. It was as if an arrow had struck her directly in the heart. The Queen absently smoothed the skirts of her dress as she moved toward the windows at the other end of her room. She was quiet for a long moment, looking out over her little town. It wasn't much but it was hers and she loved it so dearly. She had never thought she would feel such a connection for a single area of land. In her younger years, she had always assumed she would just travel the world. That her mother would live forever.

"I'll tell you a secret," she said as she approached the young maid. She took the girl's hands into her own and sat down upon the bed. She invited Illyria to do the same. "I would very much like to stay and help here. So, tell me little one. Who is it that you know and in what way might they help me?" She paused, considering her verbiage. "Help us."

The crowd shoved him back and spit insults at him, but Jandar had his own first impressions to make, even if they had to be slightly unfavourable. He noticed a sickly pale male with a broken nose and combed-back hair watching him from the hearth, and the strange man exuded an odd aura of a nasty, mean predator, as if he enjoyed the casual and thoughtless violence Jandar exhibited with his movement through the crowd. Jean took note of the male, but proceeded towards the kitchens, where he was met with a no-nonsense cook, whose first question nonetheless betrayed a hint of the witch’s fear. A plethora of Witchblood, an odd undefinable psychic scent that puts me on edge, the inn terror of the inn’s witches, a despairing Prince, an unknown male with what I’d gander is a penchant for violence…I sense a pattern here. Is it possible… Jandar shivered at the current line his thoughts had taken him. It was possible that whatever had produced the fields of Witchblood was happening regularly, often enough that everyone was affected somehow. I’ll take another look at those pens when it's no longer storming, won't be before tomorrow, likely.

After his greeting and explanation was done there right at the kitchen's door, the strict grey-haired witch apparently relaxed just enough to chase him off, shutting the gate in front of him. Jandar blinked, turning to leave, when an Opal witch bypassed him, offered him a carrot – which he accepted with a nod of thanks – and then left him just as swiftly with a warning. Alda was the one…And I scared her? She was already scared before…I wonder what she assumed I might do or want to do. Could the Mr. pale-face be one of those Opal believes I shouldn’t have attracted? Well. I do have to attract them, just enough that I recognize them, Jandar thought as he considered the pros and cons of searching for that male’s room later on. Jean pocketed the carrot, then ambled his way leisurely back into the inn’s main room, this time taking his time to move through the crowd, acting in a manner that would tell anyone who might be watching he was pleased about something. From the periphery of his eyes, the Red Warlord scanned his surroundings, hoping to catch sight of the male who’d observed him from the hearth before, all the while slowly making his way to the door leading directly to the stable. If the pale male was still around, Jandar would focus fully on his Craft enhanced sense of smell to detect and memorize the male by scent alone. Even doing so, he kept just enough attention to safely make it through the crowd and to the stable door however; he’d had to train years before being able to divide his attention so efficiently.

Then he was at the stable door, and ceased his observations to focus fully at entering the room which may or may not be still occupied by someone who may or may not be a thief. Plastering a belligerent scowl on his face, Jandar looked left then right as he crossed the threshold, gazing around the stable, then relaxed slightly as he approached Teo. He fished out the carrot from his pocket, and offered it to his companion. “Sorry, bud, this all dey’ve got.” He pet the horse on the head affectionately as he munched on the treat from his hand, though he still kept his awareness in part on any potential movements being made around him.

^@LadyRunic

Despite how grateful Mikhail was as he heard that Faeril was aware of the diference between their races, he couldn't help but raise his eyebrows when she called him 'Prince'. It was the first time in a long while that someone called him by his caste... Once more remembering him that things would be definitely different from the time he was living by himself.

"It's been quite some time since someone called me by my caste..." Mikhail said, raising an eyebrow just after he thanked her with a discreet bow for her understanding his limitations regarding time.

As Faeril called Gennar, Mikhail simply analyzed the man as he entered the room, greeting him with a discreet, but polite nod afterwards.
Given how comfortable he was nearby Faeril and by their tone as they talked with each other, it was evident that they knew each other very well. Other than that, while the Eyrien Warlord's attitude was definitely different from Faeril, he could spot certain similarities between both of them.

"I would be grateful. The treatment was... quite an experience. Without a doubt worse than being stabbed." Mikhail said, accepting Gennar's offer with a chuckle and a rather exhausted expression.

"Mikhail Volkov." He replied, extending his hand towards Gennar and giving him a firm, but cautious handshake

Dareen raised her hands when she saw her spilt drink was magically cleaned up. Well, she thought to herself, that's one way to use magic. So many practical applications beyond just killing people. She was about to thank the bartender and retreat back into social isolation when she realized there was a lot more attention on her than she was used to. Not just strange looks, like was normal. The Eryien warlord demanded her to follow him to meet someone, and the bartender agreed. Immediately she was suspicious.

She gave a confused look, raising an eyebrow and slightly curling her lip. "Hello, traveler. My name is Dareen. What's yours?" She said sarcastically.

"That's generally how you start a conversation." Did winged wonder over here really think he could just, what, kidnap her? Dareen had seen a lot of schemes in her time. Most people assumed she was an easy mark. Perhaps it was the look of childlike innocence in her eyes, she thought bitterly. Maybe this wasn't some sort of trick, but it was certainly disrespectful. The large man reeked of wealth, power, and a sense of superiority. Dareen never acted the submissive servant to blue bloods like him.

The resentful witch leaned back in her seat, making it obvious she was intent on staying in the bar, at least for now. One hand casually rested on the pommel of her saber, her elbow pressed against the counter top. Her right hand was crossed across her chest and lazy tracing lines on her left shoulder.

"Please don't talk to me like one of your maids. You know my name; I'd like to know the name of the person you want me to meet. Or why we're meeting them. Any piece of information at all, really, would be nice." She said, scanning the Eryien up and down. He was certainly a sight to behold. Nothing 'subtle' about him. Probably used to having people at his beck and call, and them doing whatever he wanted. Either out of servitude or intimidation. One thing was for sure- he didn't know how to ask nicely. Didn't he know that stupid people like her wouldn't comply simply out of spite? He could offer her a hundred bars of gold and she wouldn't take them if he used that tone of voice. Still, he might have something important to say. But there was a matter of pride involved, here. Of power. It sounded like he meant to demean her, and Dareen wouldn't allow it. And that was all of this was true. She was totally prepared for the outcome that he was just some bully seeking to rob her.

So the witch sat and stared defiantly, apparently having already made multiple assumptions about the Eryien man. She wasn't looking for a fight, but she also wasn't looking to be made to heel like a dog.

Xandar had a deep, boastful laugh to himself, almost as if somebody had said a terribly wonderful joke. Was this witch serious? Quite the balls on this one, he'd give her that. Either that or she had a death wish. He could tell from he that his craft proved far more powerful than hers. His initial offer was nice in comparison, most times he would be a lot more... violent about these things, he could have simply knocker her out and dragged her body out of the bar. He had no attachment to this woman and cared little for her well being. The only reason he was asking was because Randalvar asked to bring her along with. To be quite fair, he had no idea who this woman was or what she would want with Dareen. That was none of his business, it was simply his job to get the witch over to the healer. After his laugh his look got a bit more serious.

The hand with his ring cast out, the sapphire glinting slightly as a strong force was exerted. A strong grip could be felt out Dareen's neck, cutting off the oxygen as she was lifted a couple feet in the air, almost hitting the ceiling He brought her over to him, lowering her so that the two were eye level. His eyes were dead serious, and it was clear he was getting a bit of a temper. His patience had run out. "I do not care who or what you are, and you should be kissing my boot and thanking me that I haven't killed you already. You should well know your place, I owe you nothing. All you need to know is you're coming with me to see her, and after that I couldn't give a fuck. Your life matters little to me, it's laughable to think I care about your feelings or need for knowledge. I will grant you this, for having even the nerve to talk to me. My name is Xandar Markov, and I am like no man you have ever met before. Remember and fear that name, witch."

After that he loosened his grip on her neck, turning around before tossing her head first out of the entrance to the Winged Boar. Xandar sighed, cracking his neck as he slowly started to walk out of there himself. Maybe in different circumstances he would be more reasonable, but he's been on the run, injured, and very impatient lately, and it needn't make much for him to lash out. However, he would try to avoid needless bloodshed for now.

"Denvar. Would you mind leading the way for me? If it's no trouble to you, I'd like to make this trip as swift and painless as possible." he muttered, walking past him as he stopped near doorway. "Oh, and Randalvar. Thank you again. I'm sure I'll see you again soon enough, maybe have a drink and have some talk. I appreciate your hospitality. Oh, and I'll toss that out for you." The warlord prince noted, picking up the belongings of the yellow jeweled witch with his telekinesis and hurling it out of the Winged Boar in her general direction.

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Gen gave a chuckle as he shook Mikhail's hand and led the man through the winding halls of the eyrie towards the homely kitchen that was the Warlord's domain. "I would not let Faeril hear you say such, unless you actually want to get stabbed." The Warlord cautioned with amusement in his tone. "Coffee or something stronger? Ashke didn't say not to let you drink so..." His wings rustled as the Eyrien warrior shrugged. The halls of the eyrie were stone in all aspects save for the odd painting or table that sported some vase or other decorative piece. Thick rugs spaced evenly though the halls softened the feel of stone and most likely were only there to keep one's feet from feeling the bite of cold stone when the warming spells wore off during the winter months.

It did not take long for the Eyrien to show their 'guest' into the homely kitchen. Three archways opened into the room, one of which was the hall that wound about the eyrie. The arch across from their entrance led into what appeared to be a pleasant dining room. Sunlight would have filled that room and cast a warm glow even into the kitchen if it had not been storming. To their right was the front room, a formal sitting room of sorts. To their right was a heavy oaken door that led out to the garden visible through the widows above the stone work counters. Walking around the sturdy table that took up the middle of the room Gen took a pot off the counter and filled it with water from the sink. Setting it on the stove as he summoned a ring of wytchfire beneath it to heat the liquid. "So why did a Dea Al Mon come to Terreille? Assuming that you don't have a death wish?" The Eyrien asked blundering through the personal question with the typical amount of tact the males of his race had for such things. His hands busy grinding up some of the beans for coffee.

Winged Boar, Aren, Askavi
@Slim Shady @Zoey White
Denvar winced as the the foolish little witch snapped to the Eyrien Warlord Prince. On the best days it was best to treat an unknown male of that caste with respect and careful handling until the measure of the man was taken. They were most volatile of the castes and, as a member of that caste himself, he could vouch for that fact. Giving a sharp nod, he caught the woman before she hit the ground and he got an earful about injuries from Faeril. "Might be best lass to not agitate that one." He advised the woman as her things followed her with a clatter. Taking a bit of forethought to that matter, Denvar vanished the witch's weapons to the small pocket of power the Blood could store such things in. It wasn't comfortable with what he already held, but he could make do for now. As Xandar joined the two, Denvar gestured through the falling rain up towards the Eyries that perched on the mountainside and one particularly lonely one that sat just a bit closer to Aren than the rest. "We'll have to fly so if you don't mind, witchling?" The witch was a cocky fool and only going to get herself in trouble. After all what was such a light jeweled witch doing in Aren and with such weapons like? The options were few and honestly, Denvar hoped she was just a fool and not hunting for males else it would be a rather tense night. Looking over at Xandar, the Tiger-eye Warlord Prince sighed. It was going to be a tense night anyways.

Randalvar studied the mess that was being made of his bar and sighed in annoyance. "What is it with you younglings and having to have contests." The old warrior muttered absently, waving off Xandar's words as he glared at the drink that still dripped from his bar to the floor which lacked the same shield. "Ellian! Get a mop and rag will you?" He called back to his granddaughter withdrawing the shield that blocked the kitchen.

Root's Teeth, Dhemlan Terreille
@SilverPaw
The crowd did not seem to resent the man so much when he wasn't shoving his way through the busy floor of the tavern. Though the male that had the crooked nose was eyeing him suspiciously, though his attention was pulled away by a group of men pulling him into their conversation. They were too far away and the tavern too loud for Jandar to make out what they were saying. Their smiles didn't quite reach their eyes and the servers were uneasy about them. Though as he passed Jandar would find it nearly impossible to pin point the pale man's psychic scent or strength, there were just too many people.

The noise of the tavern however was dulled as the stable door closed after the Kaeleer native. The softer sounds of horses restlessly digging through straw and munching on hay and oats taking the place of shouts and bawdy laughter. The smell of leather, horse and fresh straw would be refreshing most likely though the subtle wrongness was just barely present here too. It seemed that folk had left the stable alone, seeking food or warmth as there was a certain nip to the air even in this Craft heated building. The damp was just pushing it's chill to everything and it would be a sad night for those who didn't make it to shelter in time. As Jandar fed Teo the carrot, he would hear a rustling high above in the loft of the stables. Up there were bed rolls among the bales and grain sacks for when the inn was too full and the stable workers were tossed out to mind the horses for the night. The scrawny child Jandar had seen earlier was picking through a small leather satchel. It's leather detailed and stylized with high craftsmanship that spoke of wealth or at least a means to obtain such things. The young Blood was blood but the psychic scent was subtle, jut a little off enough that it would be hard to pinpoint exactly what Caste they belonged too. But the pale gold eyes of the long lived races and the pale hair of a short lived race that was butchered quite short spoke of mixed blood. The tanned skin of the Hyallian, Dhemlan and Eyrien was lighter than most others. "Dammit all. Nothing in here but trash." The voice sounded young and more than a bit hoarse as papers were tossed to the side. Sealed letters, most likely the purse belonged to a courier.

Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll
@eclecticwitch
The young maid could do little but comply as Fatima took Illyria's hand within her own and sat upon the bed. Looking nervously about the room the witch felt trapped. Admitting she knew of this person to a Queen no less would be a huge risk on her part let alone. Black Widows after all were outlawed and actively seeking their aid was dangerous. For Illyria to reveal this breach of the laws to a Queen was damning on her part. In truth it had been an act of desperation. Begging for a healing of the mind when her younger brother had been badly wounded in his spirit by another Queen. Risking her position as a maid she had withdrew from the Court when the older Queen had still ruled. Pleading for time to get her brother settled, never mind he was already settled with their parents.

It had taken months, and more marks than she had, but Illyria had found the woman she had been looking for. "Please forgive me," The young maid begged looking close to throwing herself upon the ground or shooting out the window. "It was years ago, but I needed some help. From a woman. A Black Widow." Swallowing the thick knot of worry in her throat, Illyria whispered in terror. "I- ah- overheard your discussion with the First Circle and I- No one else heard, just me." The woman assured Fatima desperately. "Well, I do know of one." And she was risking everything by telling Fatima of this.

The witch gasped, her eyes widened and her hands flew to her throat. Her feet kicked uselessly in the air and her face began to turn a shade of red. The man began to monologue, fear and adrenaline muted his words. As she tried to breathe, she make throaty, throttled noises. She looked at him, her face twisted into fear, anger, defiance, and an almost imperceptible smugness within a cocked eyebrow. Thoughts came and went, but one particularly satisfying came into focus. 'Knew it.' Still, it was fleeting comfort.

Eventually, he saw fit to release her, and tossed her like a ragdoll out the front door. Rough hands came into contact with her as she was caught by a goon of some kind standing in the door. Pushing herself off of him and staggering outside, she quickly gathered up the weapons that he threw after her. Fucking pig, she thought to herself, breathing in deep.

"You're wrong," she murmered quietly in Pruulish. "Xandar Markov, you are like every single man I've ever met." She wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and composed herself. Clearing her throat, Dareen straightened her back and was on her feet as Xander stepped out the Winged Boar. Her eyes were narrowed and her posture was tense. Okay, Xandy. I'll play along. Still, she was having day dreams of gutting him in his sleep already. But best not to act on it, now. Bafoonish as he was, a proud Warlord Prince's ire was nothing to be scoffed at.

"Fly?" She leaned to get a look at the man behind Xandar, and followed his fingers to the far away building. Of course. Fast as it was, being picked up and carried was one of the most vulnerable and defenseless positions one could be in. Just as bad as being chained up or imprisoned. She didn't trust these people as far as she could throw them. But of course, Dareen was no longer protesting. She was still acting confident but Xandar had effeciently cowed her into following his lead. One good thing is that she probably wasn't being coerced into some dark alley-way to be jumped by some mugs. That place up there looked quite important.

"Shouldn't we wait until the rain passes?" She said, concern in her voice. She'd never been flown anywhere before. If winged wonder got zapped with lightning, they'd all come crashing down. It was looking like Dareen had less and less of a choice.