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It took a long while as the two of them sat upon the bed. Bags were now knocked over to make room for the pair but the Queen did not care. Her whole attention was on the terrified girl before her. At long last, she spoke an apology. Fatima did her best to not interrupt or wave it away. Instead, she listened intently. She felt the girls hands come to a cold sweat as the dangerous words left her lips. Fatima herself stiffened without realizing it. When Illyria finally stopped, Fatima took those hands together and stroked the backs of the palms lightly.

"You are sharing secrets with me and so I will share one with you. Tell not a soul, living or dead." With little difficulty she constructed a forcefield of grey around the room. It locked the pair inside. No one would be able to enter or hear what was to happen in the Queen's extravagant bedroom. She was sure the young woman could feel the energy of it. "No one will bother us now. Tell me what you know of the Black Widow. How may I reach her? What must I do?" She placed the girl's hands onto her own lap and Fatima sat back. Her face was full of kindness and patience.

The pale male remained as elusive as ever, as though Jandar had used Craft to enhance his senses, he couldn’t get a clear enough read on the single male while he was surrounded by such a crowd. The male was also apparently part of a group, an ill-meaning group if he was correct in his impressions – and given that he trusted Opal’s warning, the group around the broken-nose guy was one to watch out for.

The Varan Warlord then entered the stables, the quit atmosphere pleasanter than the din of the main room he'd just left behind, though even here, there was a hint of wrongness. As he pet and fed Teo, Jandar was interrupted from his thoughts by a near-silent rustling up in the loft, and silently stepped into a position to observe the now-confirmed-thief child rummage in a courier’s belongings, hastily throwing away papers, scrolls, letters, and various other documents. His scent revealed only that the mixed-heritage youngling was a Blood, but nothing else.

When the blood male thief began cursing – an action which made it obvious to Jandar that the child hadn’t noticed his presence and still believed himself to be the only one in the stables – the Warlord kissed Teo’s neck in temporary farewell, then quietly approached the young male, taking care to soften his footfalls in exactly the same manner that he would when hunting a dear, wrapping an aural shield tightly around himself as an insurance. He was just as cautious with his breathing as he climbed a ladder that would put him at the child’s back, and would be well outside his peripheral sight.

Once Jandar was up in the loft as well, he sneaked up behind the child, then restrained him from behind, striking as swiftly as a serpent to restrain the thief in a way to prevent him from screaming out. “Careless,” he commented in a rumble, then turned the blonde around so they were face-to-face, and clamped the scrawny criminal by his shoulders. “Won’t blame ya for stealin’, ‘coz you weren’t takin’ anyfing of mine…But, lad, you should know be’er,” he lectured in a rumble, though kept his facial expression near impassive, a stoic and subtle kind of harshness. “You ‘ave seen the kind of folk that gathers round 'ere, ‘avent you? Count yourself lucky I got ‘ere first, instead of someone nastier.”

Jandar kept the hold on the boys shoulders as he glanced at the mess of missives the boy had caused, then used his Craft to put all the disordered, dirty, crumpled, and otherwise rumpled letters to rights. He stored them back into the leather satchel with a thought, which he cleaned up with Craft as well, finally calling it to his left hand once it was back in an undisturbed state. Holding the thief in one hand and the leather satchel in the other, he questioned the blonde with a sharp look, urging him to be truthful and cooperative with his tone and demeanor. “Now, where’d you find it? I’m puttin’ it back where it belongs. Then you can come along, just for a lil bit. And if you ‘appen to be finkin’ why you might want to do ‘at, well. I’ll make it worth your while, lad.”

Xandar joined the two of them outside as and sighed a shallow breath. It seemed like Denvar was at least going to take care of their little witchling, and she seemed at least somewhat cooperative now that he put her in her place. Still, if he didn't have to deal with her, he wouldn't. Besides, what kind of witch carries around weapons and armor like that if they weren't expecting a fight? As suspicious as it was, he had no desire to concern himself. It would be better to let the tiger-eye jeweled prince handle the woman. The rain fell down heavy as he stepped from the cover of the building, letting the rain fall over him and cool him off. He stretched his shoulders, large bat-like wings spreading out far on either side of him. "And the woman still thinks her opinion matters? Charming. While you handle that Denvar I'll meet you up there. I'm not going to wait any longer than I have to." Xandar proclaimed, immediately jumping up in the air and with a flap of his wings he shot off into the sky towards the particular Eyries on the mountainside closest to Aren. He had grown rather impatient, flying fast and weaving through the rain as he set off for his destination. It wouldn't take him very long before landing and retracting his wings to his back. He'd be met by a lovely garden, although he assumed it would look much more lovely in nicer weather. Well, it wouldn't hurt to knock, although he debated on waiting for the other two before moving on ahead. Not for very long, but he thought about it. After all, it was Denvar who knew these people, not him.

As he followed Gennar towards the kitchen, Mikhail couldn't help but to notice that the halls were mostly devoid of any decoration. Made mostly of stone, the only things besides the thick rug were a few odd paintings and a few tables. Most people would probably dislike it, but oddly enough, it suited Mikhail's tastes perfectly. Sober, practical and with few things that could be considered mere 'distractions'.

"I will keep that in mind." Mikhail said with a chuckle as he listened to Gennar saying to him to not let Faeril listen to his previous words.

"I do prefer a simple coffee, thank you." Mikhail said, with a discreet nod. He never liked alcohol. It wasn't the taste or something, but alcohol hazed his mind and dulled his senses. Maybe it was due to how a Dea Al Mon body was, or maybe it was due to how Mikhail's body developed itself, but it was a fact that the effects of alcohol were more severe on his body than on most. In other words, he was incredibly weak to alcohol.

Arriving on the kitchen, Mikhail was surprised with the change of atmosphere. The kitchen itself was nothing like the halls he and Gennar were a second ago. Instead, it was a really cozy and pleasant kitchen.

Taking a pot from the counter, filling it with water and turning on the stove, Gennar started preparing the coffee as he asked him a rather personal question. Why had he, a Dea Al Mon came to Terreille.

"I do not have a fixed residence, so travelling is not something strange to me. I merely go to where my services are needed." Mikhail started, with a calm expression but carefully analyzing Gennar's expression and reactions.

"But the particular reason for me to come to Terreille was due to the... 'condition' that has been afflicting me for some time. A poor job from another Black Widow almost completely shattered my mind. I was able to... deal with it to some extent by meditating, but it was getting worse by the day... I could feel my sanity slipping away. It was then that I heard a rumor about a certain someone who could be able to treat my condition. With my time running out, my choices were few." Mikhail completed, obviously referring to Faeril.

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Gennar nodded absently, pouring the ground beans into the water with little hassle before letting it boil. In truth, he wasn't one for making coffee that others enjoyed drinking. Gen's was a rough fare he made while hunting in the mountains, leaving the coffee smelling wonderful but tasting akin to sludge. Not that he really noticed, for someone who lived with a Healer and two Warlord Prince brothers Gen was quite oblivious to some things. "Well good thing that you came to Faeril. Though I pity the Black Widow who tried to botched the job if the Lady ever gets her hands on her sister." The Eyrien noted with dark amusement, using the term sister to note another of the Hourglass coven that all Black Widows belonged to.

Faeril had slipped back inside from the back gardens, the basket over her arm filled with damp plants and herbs she wanted to get in before they lost their potency. The eyrie was a sprawling maze of several rooms, including a mud room that was for such days of this. Stepping out of the loose boots the Black Widow-Healer slipped on the simple house slipper which was more ideal than going around a stone floored hours barefoot on a chilly night. Dressed in a simple, if slightly out-dated, dress that wrapped about her neck rather than her back to leave her wings unfettered. Those annoying wing slits that were made in clothing always made her feel as though something just wasn't setting right. Personally she blamed her aunt who had tried to limit their time in town by handing down clothes.

Wandering through the halls of family home she paused before one tightly shut door. There was nothing special about it, but that it looked decidedly untouched for a number of years. Continuing on her route the woman set the basket in her workroom. One of the three that were in the eyrie. One was the hidden room where she worked the Craft of the Hourglass, another was the room where she took her work as a Healer, and a third was where Mikhail had been earlier. It was her patients' room, and Faeril took pride in healing people one way or another. The Healer's room was plain, bare of anything real personality. Shelves filled with drying herbs, bottles, jars and various tools lined the wall. While a counter lined another wall. A small and narrow room, it suited for it's purpose just as it had for it's purpose before that. Orginally the Healer's workroom had been a workroom, one of three in the house, for Eyrien weapons that the men liked to care for with a uncanny passion. The pegs and unfinished table still sat where they had, though now the beaten up table had a few scorch marks.

Satisfied with her stores after laying the herbs out to dry, Faeril made her way back through the twisting hall of the eyrie towards the kitchen were Gen most likely took their guest. Her plan had been to save the poor Dea Al Mon from what Gen considered coffee, for she could smell the horrid concoction brewing, when a knock at the door distracted her. Turning her steps one archway sooner than the kitchen she slipped into the front room. It was a comfortable room that spoke of wealth that the kitchen did not. With plush chairs and a couch crowded about a low table in front of a fireplace burning with wytchfire it was a place for conversation. But the subtle wreath mounted above the mantle of the flames held a hourglass that spoke of Faeril's true nature. Paintings and hanging weavings drapped over the walls, softening the stone walls. Eyries required heavier furniture as their homes held the weight of stone within the mountain.

"Not likely witchling." Denvar commented before he had taken off with Dareen in his arms. Careful to shield himself just in case the woman tried to knife him or do something equally stupid. It had been his fist that had rapped upon the eyrie door, knowing better than to just march in with two strangers. The heavy door that was the entrance for the eyrie shifted and locks turned before it swung open to reveal a irritated looking Eyrien woman to the three her blue eyes piercing as she gazed past her friend to the other two. "Well isn't this interesting." Faeril muttered to herself as she stepped back with a wary look at the Pruul native and the Eyrien Warlord Prince she had heard a rumor or two about. "You both might as well come in before you start looking like drowned rats. Though why I find The Reaper on my doorstep is a question I'll ask, as well to whom your loyalties lie." The woman raked her gaze over Xandar with an annoyed rustle of her wings as they spread slightly. "Denvar. Go save the coffee from your brother." Dareen would well know the title the reaper and the name Xandar Markov. Not many of the Blood wore the Ebon-Grey and only one was a Eyrien male who had been wanted by the Queens with quite the bounty on his head.

"Do you want to know about the wit-" Denvar hesitated as he slipped past the woman inside, vanishing his coat before it got Faeril's floors wet.

"I know a Pruul witch who wears the Yellow when I see her, more than that I do not consider her a threat I cannot meet. Go, Denvar." Faeril dismissed with an annoyed sigh. "Sit. Explain. Then I will decide what to do with both of you." The woman ordered, the Warlord Prince vanishing into the kitchen which was visible thanks to the archway that opened into it. The only other exit from the room that didn't lead outside opening into the hall.

Root's Teeth, Dhemlan Terreille
@SilverPaw
The young blonde looked to have Glacian heritage as he jolted and struggled in futile effort against Jandar's strength. Finally subsiding to the fact it wouldn't work, the pale golden eyes glowered at the man as the boy stiffened under the Warlord's hand. "Worth me while? I doubt that. Ain't goin' no where with you." His voice was sharp as he attempted to duck out from under Jandar's hold failing miserably. Grumbling with a sharp burst of temper, the boy hunched his shoulders in defeat as the horses below nickered softly to each other.

"Why should I tell you where I got 'em?" The youth scrowled as he seemed to accept that escape wouldn't be an option right at this moment. "You'd just as well could toss me to the innkeep or some Queen's guards. Or just toss me to the next 'collector' for some marks." The youth seemed poised to run as one small hand slipped into the pocket of the patched breeches. "Just take the papers, they aren't of use to me anyways. Not like there was anything good in that bag."

Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll
@eclecticwitch
The young maid was impressed and more than a bit worried that she was revealing this secret to a queen who wore not the Sapphire she claimed. Fatima would know her shields, including the aural one, were in place and no one was listening too closely. It wasn't healthy after all, especially if a servant was caught by one of Fatima's First Circle. Meekly Illyria nodded. "Go to Askavi." She instructed softly, her golden eyes cast down as she toyed with the hem of her sleeve. "It would be best if you went alone, you won't be able to take guards past the tavern. The Winged Boar in Aven." The woman's mouth worked but no sound came out, turning Illyria's face from nervous to startled. A spell that guaranteed silence had been woken. "I- I can say no more." The maid whispered as she touched her throat.

Dareen crossed her arms. "Alright, fine. Just don't drop me- woah!" She wrapped her arms nervously around Denvar's neck and she tried not to look down, but ended up looking down anyway. They weren't that high up, but a fall from this distance would be enough to put her out of commission for the rest of her life- if not kill her if she landed poorly.

She became soaked, and while her hood and baggy clothing gave her some protectiong, the Pruulish woman was drenched in rain by the time they got up there. It wasn't a feeling she was used too, the way her clothes stuck to her skin and the way the humidity clogged up her breathing. Ugh. Dry, blazing heat, she could handle, but this was miserable.

Finally, they came to the door of wherever she was being taken too. Wary of her surroundings, Dareen was looking over her shoulder at the pathway behind them when the door opened. There was a woman, another Eryien with wings. So many wings, it was almost enough to make a girl feel left out. Almost. She always found the additional appendages a bit...unsettling to look at.

The Reaper, the woman said. Yeah, Dareen thought. Xandar Markov. The Reaper. He was a wanted man, wasn't he? Probably for sleeping with someone he shouldn't have, or something to that regard. From where she was standing, Xandar could easily been one of the Queen's angry goons. Still, it's not like Dareen was too much different. Her pockets were lighter every day, and the thought of poverty made Dareen anxious. She pushed the dread away and focused on where she was.

Dareen obliged the woman, and plopped herself down on the couch. She eyed the Eryien woman up and down. This place was nice, if minimalistic. Dareen thought though the woman did not wear her wealth on her sleeve, it was hard to hide it when one had access to such real estate. There were plants, herbs, and paintings everywhere, trying to make the place as comfortable as possible. Dareen surmised this person was a Healer. Clearly one with influence on the town below.

Dareen scoffed at Faeril's question.

"Explain? Explain what? I was minding my own business when your people kidnapped me." She complained, the annoyance obvious in her voice. The annoyance mostly grew from Dareen's confusion and disorientation. Suddenly, she was no longer in control of her life, and was being bossed around.

Mikhail silently nodded as he heard Gennar said that he pitied the black widow who shattered his mind if Faeril knew who she was. Mikhail himself didn't know much about Black Widows other than their capabilities and skills that could potentially be dangerous to someone. Their vows, codes & teachings were all foreign to him. Although, It seemed like Faeril took her job very seriously. Which was definitely a good thing.

Still oblivious to the horrid that Gennar called 'coffee' Mikhail simply enjoyed the smell as the water started boiling and Gennar put the grounded beans on the water.

"Faeril seems to be serious and professional about her work. It's something I can relate to and respect." Mikhail said.

It was then that he heard someone knocking at the door, followed by Faeril's soft steps. Mikhail didn't pay that much attention to it initially, but the second he heard the name 'The Reaper' he immediately turned his head, paying attention at the words spoken and everything that was happening. Mikhail's agitation was clear to Gennar, whom he was talking to a second ago even though Mikhail himself was silent.

He knew who 'The Reaper' was, he heard rumors about him. He was dangerous. Incredibly dangerous. Even though Mikhail knew very well how rumors had the tendency of overexaggerating, he also knew well not to underestimate anyone or lower his guard.
If the rumors about him were true, he wasn't an opponent Mikhail could afford lowering his guard. Even if Faeril, the one whom was treating his condition seemed to be relatively at calm nearby near him.

Other than 'The Reaper', Mikhail could hear the somewhat distressed voice of a female, complaining that she was kidnapped and the voice of a man, whom Faeril called Denvar, Gennar's brother, whom soon after entering, was dismissed by Faeril, who told him to go to the kitchen.

Still sitting down on the table, Mikhail's posture seemed to be relaxed, but his piercing, cold stare indicated otherwise. While it wasn't outright an hostile stare, it was clear that he was watching and hearing every movement made by that man who called himself 'The Reaper'.

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She listened to the girl in complete silence. Her piercing white-gold eyes never left the maid's face until the moment she touched her own throat. She understood and smiled gently. She reached up and brushed hair back from Illyria's face. "Thank you," she murmured as the Grey shield fell. Leaving it up too long could draw attention she did not want. "Go, back to your duties." She brought the maids hands up and kissed the back of them before she stood and continued packing for her journey.

About five minutes after the maid left, Jassen came to her door. He had obviously not been chosen to escort her for reasons apparent to all who knew him. However, Fatima had a great amount of trust in the man and to begin with this was his idea. He was coming to check up on her and make sure she had everything she needed. However, he would be surprised to hear her tell him to prepare to leave in ten minutes. She would meet him at the stables.

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Fatima had snuck quietly from her room. A simple pack with her things was slung over her shoulder. Her hair had been tied up and a skull cap placed over her head. She wore a simple moss green tunic, brown leggings tucked into sturdy but worn leather boots, and a simple belt with a couple of pouches attached tightened around her hips. Her breasts were strapped down as well as they could be and still be able to breathe. Her tunic was kept loose over the belt and at a single glance, she might just look like an errand boy. Should anyone inspect closer they would certainly see the feminine details of her face and the body she tried to disguise.

Being a small place with little by way of guards or protection Fatima slipped easily from her home and into the stables. She took with her a single, trustworthy stallion. He had always been sweet to her though arrogant and pushy with others. Jassen also met her there and the pair of humans and horses rose out into the wilds of the world. The pair rode out until she reached a coach station. She arranged and paid for herself, Jassen, and the horses to be carried along the winds toward the destination that the maid had relayed.

For the first time in her life, travel made her nervous. Leaving her home without a Queen seemed utterly dangerous. What if another Queen took advantage? Hurt her people she had left behind before she could come back and help the land she had come to treasure. What would her mother do? A wry smirk quirked to corners of her lips. Probably leave things to rot and die. This was how they had gotten here in the first place. It was a long journey and Fatima eventually fell asleep, despite all of her fretting. Her head rested on Jassen's shoulder as she dreamed of happier times.

Jandar observed the mulish blonde boy as he struggled in wain against his hold, his gaze sharpening when he saw the child sneak one hand into a trouser pocket, the lad's body tensing for action. Jandar tightened his hold on the boy’s shoulder in a warning not to do anything foolish, and pocketed the leather pouch. “If I was wantin’ to toss you anywhere, no way was I standin’ here chattin’ you up,” he noted with an impatient growl.

With an eye-roll, he released the boy. “’Ave it your way, lad. And if you change your mind, I’m stayin’ ‘ere for the night,” he said, offering a short explanation as to where his room could be found. “Knock four times, like this, so I know it ain’t no stranger,” he demonstrated by clapping his hands, first a soft clap, followed by a short pause, then two quick successive claps, and a louder clap a second after. “See ya or not,” the Warlord added dismissively with a shrug, descended the ladder, and headed back into the inn.

Honestly, he’d given the knocking hint to the boy more of as a lure to come than something he'd actually require. The Warlord hoped the blonde would see it as an interesting little tid-bit, and would be intrigued enough to pay him a visit. This was an endeavor to draw attention from a potential source of information that cost Jandar next to nothing. Even if the boy forwent knocking in the specific manner Jandar had shown him - even if the blonde attempted the more reckless thing and tried to sneak into his room - Jandar was confident he could recognize and intercept him. But conversing with the lad when he was so obviously hostile and frightened seemed like a futile attempt, and so Jandar had left the decision for further contact to the boy. And the child likely didn’t know it, but he’d already given the Warlord some information – the fact that apparently, the innkeep, the Queen’s guards, and so-called collectors were all collaborating in a scheme that involved…capturing people?

Jandar didn’t know why the blonde thought he (a child of dubious value) would be worth collecting, however. More importantly, whoever the innkeeper was, the boy thought he or she was likely to sell him out. Had Jandar already seen the innkeep without knowing it? Or was the owner keeping out of sight? There were mysteries within mysteries even in such a small part of Terreille. They were all connected, and Jandar was sure they all originated from the Queen, and all lead to her as well. He’d prefer not to follow the leads he was discovering just to end up in her domain, but he was afraid he might eventually have to do just that, if he wanted to find SaDiablo and free the Warlord Prince from whatever was keeping him occupied in this rotting Realm.

As he entered the inn’s main room, the Warlord kept a lookout for the shady group he'd seen before with his peripheral sight, and if they were still there, Jandar would enhance his hearing with Craft to eavesdrop on them. He also kept an eye on any obvious distressed people – if there was someone looking for an lost article already, he might have to part with the bag straight away somehow. The foolish lad – Jandar wouldn’t put it past the boy to try and pin the blame for stealing the satchel on him out of spite. Though if the little thief attempted a direct approach such as that, Jandar could probably weasel out of it. The longer he had the satchel with him, however, the more risk he was under. If only he could find the owner and return the belongings to him unobtrusively. He had to admit though, with such prime opportunity within his grasp, a part of him dearly wanted to seclude himself and read through all the letters. But he could afford to do such a thing only if whoever was the owner was unaware of the theft.

Xandar waited for the other two to arrive and crossed his arms, standing behind them as Denvar knocked on the heavy wooden door. After a few clicks and a swift swing of the door, a woman appeared with bright blue eyes and dark hair. An Eyrien woman, who was much smaller than him but he could tell that she was very capable despite her small stature. This was definitely the woman, and she took no time to push past Denvar and call him out. By his title no less, 'The Reaper' was a name that almost everybody knew him by now, most of his other names lost to this one. Death, destruction, murder, war, the name was carried with a certain despair and weight to it. Rumor carried by the winds speak of slaughters and massacres of hundreds of men, even his own father put to death by his own hand, Xandar Markov was the last of his lineage. Years of living rogue and on his own, fighting against the queens and being hunted have shaped these rumors so harshly. A man that once fought for a cause, for rebellion, and for honor talked about like a walking serial killer. A reaper only came for those who deserved death, and their death came swift, but a reaper was not above killing those who got in his way. Fear would be a rational reaction to the sight of Xandar, a man of great strength and size, but this woman walked right up to him, knew exactly who he was, and was fine with it. It might have not been the most respectful greeting, but he needed her help so he wasn't going to go about and start any fights. He would have to be on his best behavior, and try to figure out who these people really were, and what they were about.

"If you know who I am then you should well know my loyalties, which are quite exclusive to myself. I don't think I need to explain much more than that." Xandar commented, smirking as he gave her a knowing look. He was well aware that she must know the bounty on his head and how he got it. He wasn't concerned in fighting anybody but the Queens and their people who were spreading evil and tyranny about his people. He refused to bow to those he did not agree with. As he stepped through the door he flipped back his hood, casting a heating spell on himself. He instantly dried off as he stepped through the door, completely dry as a bit of steam came off of him. He vanished his cloak, becoming a bit too warm from the heating spell. His jet black hair was cut about medium length, wavy and thick as he ran his hand through his locks. His bright gold eyes reflected the light brightly as he took a look around, taking in the view. The front room was of a wealth he was more familiar too, plush but heavy furniture, a fire place, and it seemed a bit cozy. His eyes also glanced over to the kitchen, where he noticed another set of eyes staring back at him.

A tall, slim man with white hair and blue eyes watched his move ever so carefully. His body was relaxed but he could feel the cold stare piercing through him was those ice blue eyes. It seemed that the Xandar had attracted more attention than he was hoping for just by walking into the room. This was usually the case, if the man didn't catch anything from his nickname Xandar's sheer size and presence alone was enough to make people worry. This is why for the most part he kept his Ebon-grey vanished. The sight of that jewel alone had people for the door. This glare however did not intimidate him in the least bit, and he locked eyes with the man for a brief moment. His warm, glowing gold eyes looked back at his blue ones, ever so calm and confident, as if saying 'Watch me all you want'. This moment ended with a slight smirk before he turned and walked deeper into the front room. He unclasped his leather armor, sending that into the void as well as all his weapons. He was left with a black sleeveless tunic which opened in a v neck on the front. It was rather tight, the strings on the v neck puled tightly as the cloth clung to his frame. The back was torn open near the shoulder blades to make room for his wings, which now rested neatly on his back. He sat down on one of the chairs, this legs spread a bit and he leaned on the one arm rest, holding up his head with his hand. With the other hand he absentmindedly played with his ring, the Sapphire.

"Now to answer your question of why I'm here, I was in need of a healer of your talents. I came by Boar, as I used to know the son of the man who owned it, and asked if he could help me out. He pointed me in your direction, and I trust him, so here I am to ask of your services. As for this one on the couch, I have no idea who she is or why she's here, I was simply told to bring her along and that you'd want to see her. Before today I hadn't met the witch in my life. Truth be told with her attitude it'd be best I hadn't, but alas." He chuckled, not even glancing at Dareen as his eyes were fixed on the fire. He knew she wasn't very fond of him, and in his mind he was just waiting for her to dare to something so he could put her in her place. But he had to behave, and so he wouldn't try to start violence. But, taunting and belittling her wasn't out of the question.

"My business here is solely with you and your services. I can discuss it more in detail with a bit more... privacy. But in short all I ask is for you to do what you do, I provide compensation, and I'm on my merry way to go about business as usual. I'm not here to try and stir things up in this lovely town of yours. Starting needless trouble when I have better things to do is the least of my concern." he noted, looking right at Faeril as he said this. He wanted this event to be as quick and painless as possible, and hopefully this would go over smoothly. However, he had a bad feeling that this little detour would take longer than expected.

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Denvar hissed a sharp note between his teeth as he slipped beneath the arch into the kitchen, noting quickly that Faeril's latest patient had taken the chair that would give him a unobstructive view of the front entrance to the eyrie. Though he could perhaps see the couch that frame the fireplace but little else with how the wall obstructed the scene that was surely playing out and Denvar did not envy the sight of it. "Gen, let me deal with the horror you're brewing." The Tiger-eyed Warlord Prince growled, shoving his brother out of the way as he took over the task. Though Gen in his defense shoved back and a short scuffle of straining males in a short and heated argument over the brewing of coffee ensured. Meanwhile Mikhail would be able to hear into the front palor though he would not be able to everything from his seat.

Faeril looked with distaste as Dareen walked in without a care for the wet mess she made of the floor or her hostess's couch. Flicking her hand absently at the woman, Faeril let a heat charm scourge her couch of it's dampness and the puddles from her floors and lessen the state of the woman's clothing. Denvar was a fool for not shielding against the rain but to be fair he had be preparing for a potential fight, though not the one he had found in the kitchen to save their collective sense of taste. While her couch would still be damp, it at least would not be utterly ruined by the Pruulish woman's thoughtlessness. "I see you know your Protocol ever so well." The Black Widow=Healer stated with a icy tone as she sat with delicate grace into the chair opposite of both Xandar and Dareen.

Protocol was the doctrine of manners and laws that the Blood followed. It shaped and gave their society a chance to work without Warlord Princes snarling and snapping the spines of lesser males for simply looking at them. It gave the Blood a level of civility they adhered to. And Dorothea was slowly twisting it to her means. Letting children who grew up learning these guidelines with a twisted sense to them and giving the Queens power without question or restraint. Pointedly ignoring Xandar for the current time, Faeril considered the Yellow Jeweled witch. "It is not common to see a Pruulish witch in these mountains, nor one so armed. Most of those that do bring little good with them." Her eye burned with the cold fury which seemed to make a slight nip of cold in the air. A effect the more powerful of the Blood could cause. The Black Jeweled Warlord Prince was famous for coating rooms in ice. "You would do well to remember that I outrank you. Both in my Caste and my Jewel of rank." Her chin dipped to acknowledge the Red that hung about her neck. As the Lady of the house, let alone as a Black Widow and Healer who wore the Red, Faeril was granted by Protocol a level of respect and Dareen wasn't showing it.

After her piercing words to the Pruulish witch, the Eyrien woman turned her gaze to the lounging Warlord Prince. Her wings spreading slightly to make herself appear larger, he was a dangerous adversary after all, as she examined him with the sharp sense of a Healer. Oh, he needed a Healing alright and there was no one better than her. Tapping her fingers against the wooden arm of the chair she tilted her head in thought. "I ask because while there are rumors, rumors are not always true." Her glacier eyes studied the Ebon-Grey for a moment before she nodded absently and flicked her fingers in a come hither gesture. Faeril would still check, make sure he was true in his words, but Randalvar didn't just send people her way on luck and chance. If the man had known the old tavern owner's son, then it was would stand to reason that the Warlord had sent him. "Very well, let us speak in private."

No sooner were the words out of her mouth before both Gen and Denvar were in the doorway and bristling with indignation at the thought of their friend, female at that!, going off with the Ebon-Grey Warlord Prince who went by the name 'The Reaper'. "You cannot be serious. Faeril, at least allow one of us with you!"

"Or at least have that talk in the dining room." Denvar rumbled, his memberous wings spreading as he eyed up Xandar. Tiger-Eye against the Ebon-Grey was as good a suicide but the Warlord Prince would fight hard to protect his friend and brother from this potential threat.

Faeril let the arguement and bristling of her adoptive family continue on before raising a single hand and locking the two with a stern look. Speaking in the tongue native to her race the woman pointed out with cool and dispassionate logic. "I will see if he speaks true and if he does not then that wound will be the least of his worries. If he speaks true..." There was a meaning full look between the three Eyriens before Faeril stood and pointed with a certain sharpness at Dareen. "She will remain there until she dries out or I return to question her." Walking with swift strides towards the door the woman glanced over her shoulder with a raised brow. "I know Eyrien men often go without nary a stitch during the summer, but my supplies are in my workroom." Not waiting to see if he followed or not, Faeril swept from the room and down the halls to the room she had been in just earlier with Mikhail.

Root's Teeth, Dhemlan Terreille
@SilverPaw @eclecticwitch

The Winds turned rough and unstable as Jassen navigated the Opal threads and tethers. It was not a straight line to the small village of Aven though the village boasted a landing web. The lighter the Jewel the longer it took to navigate the Winds which was both a blessing and a curse. The psychic roads of the Blood could be turbulent during a storm if the storm was a very bad one and this one? It was bad enough that Jassen was forced to drop into a nearby landing web in Dhemlan. Studying the grey building as rain lashed the walls and windows, the Warlord winced as he saw the reason the Court had kept Fatima away from the particular part of Dhemlan. The mud swamped corrals and sheds were stake and a cruel reminder to what might await them if Fatima's true nature was revealed and another Hyallian Queen from the Hundred Families took exception. The ruling aristo of their caste was a cruel one.

Jandar would note that the cruel looking group of males were hanging about and seemed to have other thoughts on their mind than him as they eyed the Opal witch that had advised him. The woman looked harried and no small bit worried as she slipped through a door that lead to the stairs up to the rooms. The Warlord would easily pick out their words as they passed him intent on the same path the witch had taken.

"Oh, she's a lovely one. Won't it be fun?" One of the males chuckled as he jabbed at their apparent leader who had smiled at Jandar.

With a speculative look at the stairs. "It's always 'fun'. A bit of a challenge doesn't hurt."

"A bit of challenge is troublesome. I want a profit not a squawking harpy." A third grumbled as the door closed behind them.

It was shortly after this that the door to the inn opened and a drunk looking man appeared. His cheeks were too red to be sober and he looked a bit greasy. The woman held close under his arm as though he was trying to avoid her being notice was unmistakably a Queen to Jandar's senses, perhaps a little something more. Though his read on what her jewel of rank was a little bit confusing most likely thanks to the drunk who was hastily trying to bargain for a room. Which most likely didn't exist, but damn if the innkeeper didn't look like he was trying to convince Fatima that his bed was the best in the house and he most assuredly didn't mind giving it up!

Immediately upon entering, Jandar noticed the shady group, broken-nosed slick-and-black-haired male (their leader, apparently) included, while they were too preoccupied with their nefarious plans to pay attention to him. The moment he heard them mention fun and challenge and profit with that sickening, leery, cruel, mocking undertone to their words, the moment he realized they were following the Opal witch, was the same moment his mind began racing, his heart-beat quickening to an almost erratic thump-thump-thump, the sensation akin to a beast roaring against his chest, a beast doing its best to tackle and claw its way out-out-OUT.

They- Hell’s fire consume them, the bastards were going to- to rape the girl. Even if they refrained from committing that particular act, they would hurt and injure her in other ways. Would the Opal witch – the witch who had helped him, who had been worried about a weaker-jeweled witch, who had given him a snack for Teo and advice to boot, whom he didn’t even know the name of! – turn into yet another Witchblood, her blood spilled as carelessly as had been done countless times here, a mere fertilizer for the- The horrifying, thoughtless massacre, the perversion of anything good and proper in the world…Jandar sucked in a sharp breath, clearing his mind.

The scent of a Queen entering distracted him for but a moment, long enough to note that she was attempting to stay unnoticed (and the burning questions of who, why, what were roughly shoved to a corner of his mind – this was not an issue he could afford to spend time on right now), long enough that he surveyed the room’s occupants and judged whoever the owner of the pouch was, they weren’t openly panicking yet, long enough to consider paying a visit to Cook and immediately dismiss the notion, long enough to reassuringly grip the hunter knife sheathed at his back, long enough to notice the Queen was being pestered by the innkeeper (but she had a companion, he needn’t redirect his worry to her when the Opal witch was all alone, facing danger on her own).

It couldn’t have been longer than a dozen seconds – not more than half-a-minute, certainly? – since the witch-hunting males had closed the door after themselves. (But what if those seconds had determined whether he could save the witch? His traitorous mind took its own direction with his fears, whispering the likes of What if you can’t save her? What if you do, and they simply hunt down another? What if you enrage them, and they do much worse? What if you compromise your own position? Would it not be safer to ignore this? Can you afford to ignore this? Will taking action truly lead to a better result? And if your involvement worsens the situation? If the group notices, what then? Will you try to protect the witch by being the only one- the only ‘gentle’ one, you utter fool? Will you simply attack them, take on a group, risk your life and your mission for some no-name witch? Risk being taken prisoner so soon for the sheer idiocy you are about to attempt? Each thought charged him so full of emotion he felt he might burst, yet he ignored the rising anxiety, ignored the nerves, shoved it all down and under, down and under, until he thrummed full of purpose, yet hadn’t taken a single step forward, and he was just wasting time now, You’re wasting time!)

No, it hadn’t taken long at all for Jandar to reach a decision. (But, oh, you had wasted a few precious seconds, haven’t you? Wasted time for senseless self-doubting- No, no, no, keep your goal in mind, work on the method as you go, now just go!) He was moving after the group already, drawing on his Blood Opal jewel as he cast an aural shield at the door to obscure the sound of it opening for him and closing behind him. As soon as he was out of the main room and the door closed behind him, he drew upon his Craft to cast a sight shield on himself, followed by a hasty aural shield as well. He pursued the group swiftly, but tookcare to step softly and kept a bit of a distance from the group in case his Craft failed him or the power he had used drew any of the males’ attention to their surroundings.

However, the moment he determined where the Opal witch had gone, he was resolved to try to get to her first. (But unnoticed, he should not be noticed, he should hide himself and the witch, could he hide them both, How could I possibly- How to get to her first when they’re in front of you?) However, if the witch was already being accosted…well. He’d have to waste a few precious seconds in any case just to determine whether the group was speaking (or doing terrible, unforgivable, unspeakable things) to the witch, and how she was faring – could he hope the Opal witch would help herself, somehow? He rather doubted she could take on a whole group by herself.

And if the Mother-forsaken shit-sacks were engaged with the witch in some manner already, Jandar would have to take a direct approach (not an idea he was fond of, but surely, surely he could make something work? Redirect their attention? Distract them? Join them, and incapacitate them when they are- when they are-), and do his best to chase them off. May the Darkness be merciful, let me be in time. (He was furious, so furious he could kill them all, kill them and desecrate their corpses, not only could he do it – easily, he knew – it would be so easy when they didn’t even see him, didn’t even hear him, it would be easy, and he would take joy in it, he would laugh as they screamed, he would laugh as the light left their undeserving eyes, he would laugh.) Let this be simple.

Dareen looked down at herself as the rain was heated off her cloak. "Oops," She said insincerely. She leaned onto the arm of the couch, resting her knuckles into her cheek, staring up at Faeril like an impetulant teenager. Yes, she thought to herself as the Eryien carried on about Protocol. I do know I tend to bring trouble onto those undeserving. She's done it many times in her life time, and it's something she hasn't quite gotten around to fully coming to terms with yet. Still, she hardly had any respect for those who claimed to be deserving of respect just because they were born in some way or another. Protocol was just another tool of the oppressors, whoever they may be. Still, Dareen was interested to find out what was going on here. Whoever these people were, they didn't seem to be friends of the Queen Dorothea. They probably would have demanded money or something, by now. The Pruulish woman wanted to learn more about any opposition there might be.

But nobility were usually part of the problem. It was hard not to see everyone in the higher castes as issues. Often they all looked, acted, and talked so similar to each other.

The "Reaper" (he most likely chose that name himself, Dareen thought) was being invited out of the room. The Eryien witch switched into her native tongue, and pointed very directly at Dareen. The Pruulish woman responded by gesturing at her own chest and making a surprised face. "Who, me?" Her facial expression said ironically.

She made herself more comfortable on the couch as some people cleared out. Whatever it was, it was clear she wasn't invited. What an odd day this turned out to be. Now a little more alone, she re-evaluated her strategy. She was annoyed by the fact she was here against her will. But, still, isn't this where she wanted to be? She wanted answers, didn't she? Questions like: Why was Dareen and her mercenaries sent out to bully and harass seemingly innocent people? What happened to all the Black Widows? Why was there a hidden pit of drea inside Dareen's heart? She'd never really thought about her faith in the establishment, or more rather her lack thereof. Disillusioned in her life choices, the Yellow-Jeweled Witch had set out for answers. Now, here she was. Being tsked tsked at by a woman with perfect hair and perfect nails. Some things never change.

Mikhail couldn't ignore the way the 'Reaper' looked back at him. The calm and confident way the man stared back at him and even the way he walked and especially the smirk said more about him than words could. He had the confidence and arrogance one had when they knew exactly how dangerous they were. It wasn't merely acting or a bluff. He was dangerous and dangerously unpredictable. As he walked further inside the house, Mikhail finally averted his gaze as his silhouette went out of his sight. Fragments of the conversation were able to be heard by Mikhail, but he couldn't do much with the little he was hearing.

Still alert to 'The Reaper's presence, Mikhail noticed Denvar's words as he got in the kitchen, mentioning the coffee being brewed by Gennar as 'horror'. Mikhail couldn't help but to wonder when it was the last time he drank some coffee. At least for him, the 'horror' Denvar mentioned was smelling good so far.

It didn't take long to the conversation going on the room nearby the kitchen to take a rather dangerous turn, when Faeril said that she would speak in private with the so called 'Reaper'. Immediately after those words got out of her mouth, both Gennar and Denvar were at the door, their expressions doing little to disguise the indignation at their stare. After a brief exchange of words in Faeril's native tongue, she stood up, going towards the very same room she was with Mikhail himself just a moment ago, after inviting the one in question with her.

Without making a single sound, almost as if Mikhail had suddenly materialized behind both Denvar and Gennar, he finally opened his mouth, his eyes following the so called 'Reaper' as he followed Faeril.

"I heard rumors about that man." Mikhail said, low enough so only Gennar and Denvar would hear him.

"Some of them surely sound like exaggerations, but..." He continued.

"He is not someone whom I would lower my guard when dealing with." Mikhail finished. The tone of his voice and his expression clearly stated that his words were more than just 'instinct' or a 'hunch'.

"I don't know his intentions... He is dangerously unpredictable." Mikhail finished, as he waited for Denvar and Gennar's replies. He didn't know Faeril that well, neither did he know Denvar or Gennar, but he needed Faeril. She was the only one capable of treating his condition and healing his mind. If both Eyriens took too long to decide what to do, he would do something himself. Even if Faeril said not to.

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Even if they had attempted to keep her away from this place, even if she had never traveled here specifically, Fatima had experienced such dirty and poverty-stricken places in her lifetime. Hell, they were some of the easier places to hide in when she traveled on her own all those years ago. But the world could change quite a bit in fifty years. She made sure the skullcap was placed firmly on her head and all of her dark waves were tucked into it. Perhaps some might be fooled. Hopefully most if they were drunk enough.

She entered the tavern alongside Jassen, allowing him to keep a protective arm about her. She wasn't sure if that would really create less or more notice. She did catch the words some troublemakers were saying to each other, likely about some poor girl stuck in the rain too. Dirty, lascivious drunken men who could hardly keep it up anyhow due to their inebriation, seemed to take great joy in hitting on a feeble female.

Luckily for herself and Jassen, the owner seemed to be the good sort of man. Offering his own bed to a couple of weary travelers. She opened her mouth to respond but remembered she was supposed to be acting as some sort of page boy. She quickly shut it and instead turned her eyes toward the disgusting men. They had disappeared. But it seemed not long before another man was hot on their heels.

Xandar was amused by the careful looks he got from everyone, that it seemed all eyes were on him and this conversation. It was funny how even other Eyriens feared a man such as himself, but could he blame them? Xandar grew up his entire life never fearing a single man, besides his father, and he had killed his father with his own two hands. Nobody had stood in his way since, and it was only the power of an entire kingdom that made the Warlord Prince think twice about what he did. The Ebon-Grey could only take him so far, there were few who rivaled him, and even less who possessed the Black Jewel. Maybe it was better that Xandar didn't have the Black Jewel, but some days he wished he had. But still, he could be worse off. There were very light jewels in his presence, all of their lives snuffed with a snap of his fingers. At least, the ones he had met so far. The strange man who liked having staring contests with him didn't seem to be from around here and a bit more competent than some he had met, but nothing he couldn't handle. He hoped that he wouldn't be a thorn in his side, he seemed very suspicious of him, an the last thing he wanted was dramatics. However, this healer... she wore the pants here so it seemed. It was truly as if the two adults were talking, and this mother was trying to deal with her children in the mean time.

Once the Red-Jeweled woman took his glance, eyeing him up before speaking to him, it took a few short moments before she finally agreed to speak in private. This discussion of his injuries were not one he'd like to have with anyone besides the one who was going to treat him, and he would also like to hide the severity in case anybody had any ideas. There was still a large bounty on his head after all, and he didn't want anybody getting a cool idea to try and capture him when he wasn't at full strength. But, even in this current state he was a force to be reckoned with, and he would act proud and powerful for as long as he could. As he got up from his chair to follow her the little minions seemed to spring up as if on cue. Oh it was adorable, the little children afraid for her mother. She was the only one who could even stand up to him, and these people wanted to stay for security? They would honestly only get in her way if anything happened.

After a bit of bickering and pointless arguments the lady of the house shut them up with a single hand raise, switching to her Eyrien tongue as she addressed them. Wow, a sensible woman who knew what she was talking about and had some balls to say it. A+. She finally shut up the children and told them to leave the adults to their business. Xandar walked slowly to the door, sighing as he stretched his large wings out, extending them far before folding them back in again. She was starting to like this woman, which was probably more concerning than anything. The kind of people he liked were like him, and he knew it wouldn't be an easy task repaying this woman. She'd milk him for all he was worth at this rate. But what choice did he really have?

"All these rumors, calling me by my alias. Yes, there are many rumors about me I'm sure. The only thing exaggerated about them are why I did things, not what I did or how I did them. If I was here for your souls I would have announced it when I walked in the door gentleman, but I'm not here to kill anyone, especially not your precious healer. Everyone else in the room? I could care less. But, I suppose if I made trouble I would not get the service I want. My business is with the woman, and not with any of you. I came here for what I want, and when I get it I'll be on my way." Xandar said, walking over to the door as he put his hand on the door frame.

"Now if you'd excuse us, the adults are talking." Xandar said smugly before disappearing into the hall behind Faeril.

Once they had gotten into the patient's room, Xandar sat down on the examining table or whatever she called it and stretched a bit, yawning. He slipped off his tunic, vanishing it as he was now shirtless and his whole upper body was on full display to the woman.He wasn't shy in the least, he had nothing to be ashamed of, and she wouldn't be the first or last woman he'd take his clothes off around. However, there was one spot on his torso that was fairly unusual. There was some bandages wrapped around his torso, some pads pushed against the side of his ribs. He vanished those as well, and a nasty looking wound was shown as he lay on his side. It was wide and deep, and it seemed like it was taking a lot just to not have the wound gushing blood everywhere. There was only so much healing he could do on his own, but this wound only got worse by the day.

"If I could do this myself I wouldn't have come, but this is a bit serious. This wouldn't be the first time I've had a life threatening injury, however, this one I can't just tough out. A week ago I was ambushed by some of the Queen's men, I was turned in by one of the people I thought I trusted for my bounty. Fucker caught me off guard before I could get my Ebon-Grey, hit me hard. If I hadn't flinched when I did I would have been captured for sure and this injury would have crippled me. I burned the whole place and the bodies to the ground and left. It's been getting worse and I've felt weaker every day. I have a bad feeling this isn't normal."

Xandar sighed, staring at the wall as he said this. He hated this moment of weakness, of need, having to get help from somebody he barely knew. His pride would have to wait for now, as he wasn't stupid enough to have himself die or get captured this easily. If he had to play nice for a bit and bite the bullet he would. He just had a bad feeling about this woman, not the fact that she wouldn't heal him. The barkeep wouldn't send him to some place he didn't trust, but those words still rung in his head. She'd put him right, one way or another, although he might not like how she did it. It couldn't be that bad.

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Faeril's mood was the not the best, but it was far from the worst. Though she watched with approval as the Warlord Prince sat upon the long low table she used for patients or mixing herbs depending on the need. At least he had enough sense to insist she treat a wound upon the bed that took up part of the room. Though as Xandar removed the bandages, the glacier eyes narrowed and temper flared as she listened to the idiot male prattle on. Quick steps carried her over to the fool boy as her hand cuffed Xandar firmly upside the head. "Be silent you fool male." The Healer snarled as she eyed the wound and summoneda large wooden frame about a foot square resembling a loom from the cabinet across the room as the wooden doors clattered open. And what would appear to Xandar as silk appeared from the storage the Blood could Vanish things to. Setting the loom in her lap the woman's muttering took an edge as she fixed a poisonous look at the Warlord Prince. As a Healer, her instincts drove her to aid him. As a Black Widow, her desire was to gut him for being a absolute fool

"Hell's Fires, Mother Night, and May the Darkness be Merciful! What you appeared not to notice was that they struck you with a Black Widow's poison. Though not one I cannot combat. What on earth possessed you to even seperate yourself from your Ebon-Grey Jewel? I thought you had some brains between your ears though apparently you only use your muscles like most of your lot." Snapped Faeril proving well how she had earned her reputation as a woman not to be crossed. Stripping the gloves from her hands, the woman flexed her right hand and from under her ring finger extended a snake tooth looking claw. Xandar would well know this for the venomous weapon of the Black Widows. "So be a smart, snarly male and do not resist someone who is trying to help your worthless hide." With no hesitation Faeril drove her nail into the man's wound. The poison of a Red Jeweled Black Widow setting the Warlord Prince's blood on fire. The Black would kill someone in the blink of an eye, the Ebon-Grey in second, the Grey in minutes, and the Red was just as lethal. Withdrawing her hand the snake tooth sliding back under the woman's nail. A shield sliding over herself, as her eyes watched Xandar with a mix of wary suspicion and pure annoyance. Like he had tramped through her favorite flower bed.

Gripping the wooden frame Faeril's hand began to move as her Craft flowed over the wound through her poison. Seeking out it's rival and scorching it out. A lesser poison to be sure, but a potent one. "The Queen... Which Queen? We have half a dozen within the District and I need to know which one is going to come breathing down my neck, you prick." The grumbling and snarling of the witch was obvious as a web took place on the loom. Gesturing sharply, a bad habit of hers, a glass vial appeared and settled beneath Xandar's wound blood trickling down and into the container. "Move from that and I will shave you." Hissed the Healer-Black Widow. "At least my 'children', my brothers, are clever enough to heed me." Nevermind that she had just threatened to essentially geld a Ebon-Grey Warlord Prince.

Front Palor, Ashkevron Residence in Aren, Askavi
@13org @Zoey White
"You would be wise to watch your words, Mikhail." The Green Jeweled Warlord noted with a tired noted in voice as though he had just stepped away from the killing field. The red rage that was driven by the harsh nature of the Blood especially in the males. Turning back to the kitchen, the man paused to glare at Denvar as his brother was already putting himself between Gen and the coffee.

Nodding in agreement with his brother, the lighter jeweled Warlord Prince nodded in agreement. "Faeril wears darker Jewels than the rest of us. She can handle herself and would not take kindly to interruption." Giving a pointed look towards Dareen, the Eyrie narrowed his golden eyes. "And you might do well to remember your manners before Faeril tasks herself with remind you of them."

As if just noticing the Pruulish witch, Gen looked between the woman and his brother with a growing annoyance. Which Xandar had not helped. But Faeril had asked them to leave it and for her sake the brothers would heed the warning. "Why is she even here?" Denvar answered with a simple word, or name rather. Randalvar. Annoyance made Gen rustle his memberous wings. "That old man needs to mind his own business. Though he does have a point. What is a Pruulish woman doing armed and in Aren? Unless you're hunting for new 'toys' for the queens."

Root's Teeth, Dhemlan Terreille
@eclecticwitch
The owner looked pleased as Jassen nodded mutely. The member of the First Circle eyed the innkeeper. The man obviously didn't know of Fatima's rank. A small blessing. It seemed to the old Hyallian that the male was eager to get a bit more business and take advantage of this unlucky weather during his slow season. These particular markets for the chattel that were, to the Blood of Terreille, at the bottom of society's rung were not open to deal with the season's rains as the late Spring storm outside whipped and rattled the windows. If he was any judge this would be one of the last storms to blow it's wrath out from the Askavi Mountains.

"We'll accept." Jassen said gruffly, handing payment to the man as well as a terse order. "Whatever you have for food in our room shortly. It's been cold." Perhaps it was rude of him, but he didn't want to be polite with this crowd of people so close to his Queen. If they sussed out the Lady then none of his brothers in Eldan would be safe. Nodding the innkeeper snagged on of the servers and passed on the order before leading Queen and drunk to the room. It was a small but sturdy room on the first floor. Loud from the chatter of the common room, but the bed was comfortable looking enough (and would prove the same to touch). Clean and tidy summed up the various small shelves that held books and private correspondence, which the inn keeper quickly Vanished.

"If you've need of anything, just ask. Please, it's no trouble." The portly fellow blabbered eager for each coin that would ease the 'gifts' he would give the Queens when they came for the local market in a few month's time. "A server will deliver your meal shortly." The door was firmly shut behind him as Jassen nearly growled about tossing the man out onto his ass. Firmly setting himself against the door for a minute of two before shuffling about to study Fatima.

"Does it suit you, Lady?" He stated in a tone that was a grumbled mixed with the drawl of a someone who had been drinking too much for too long.

@SilverPaw
The door was merely a landing for stairs that spiraled up into the reaches of the inn. The group of men were on one of the landing while the witch seemed to be busy with a rather well dressed aristo male with the green eyes and dark tan skinned of the Shalador people. The aristo seemed to be arguing with some heat. Enough that it kept the hunters from getting near their prey and risking this Warlord's wrath. In fact, they seemed to be sorely tempted to flee rather than get caught up with the mess. Jandar would be able to tell that man wore a Green jewel. Evident as it wore it openly. With his dress and mannerism the man looked as though he would be at home in some Queen's Court and not a inn by the road side.

"So, you have no way to discourage a pickpocket. A thief? Or do you encourage it?" Snarled the Warlord as the witch tried to placate him. A hint of fear filling the male's voice.

Shaking her head, the woman raised her hands helplessly. "Lord, I don't know what you are talking about. We don't encourage theft and the owner of The Root's Teeth won't have it. Please, if you tell me what is going on I may be able to help you."

"What I said!" Howled the male as he slammed a hand down on the wooden railing of the stairway. "My documents were stolen. Mother Night are you so dense?! Do you want to be responsible for the breaking of every witch in this Inn when I explain to my Queen it was your little establishment that cause the loss of those documents?" There was a sly and cruel look in the Warlord's eyes as the witch paled. "Oh, you wouldn't want to be out in that market. So unless you want to see how you'd like life without your jewels, find me that documents."

It was then that the smiling, cruel leader who was now wearing a sneer spoke up. "Or just break open her mind now and be done with it. Not like anyone will miss her." Catching his interruption the male inclined his head to the Shaladorian. "Lord Erkyn."

"I wouldn't just stand there, Travin. It was your incompetence that allowed this to happen. I brought you as a guard not to drink and oogle women." 'Travin' jerked and a flicker of hatred passed over his face that Jandar could see. It was thankful perhaps that the door was cast in shadow from the stairs doubling back over the entrance and leaving it in shadow.

Dareen made brief eye contact with Gen after his comment about manners, and ignored Denvar talking as if Dareen wasn't right there. If they wanted to know what a Pruulish witch was wandering around Aren with an arsenal of weapons, they could just ask. No one had asked Dareen anything, yet. She'd answer when they did. Dareen shifted her attention off tweedledee and tweedledum and onto the one called Mikhail. He didn't seem like he belonged here, either. At the very least he didn't spend a lot of his time here. At the very, very least, his name didn't end in a god damn "-ar" sound. These winged, pompous Eyriens were really starting to grind her nerves. Randalvar, Xandar, Genvar, Denvar, Banvar, Shmanbar.

But, one good thing has come of this. The Black Widows still exist, and yes, they are in hiding. Still, their unfortunate circumstances doesn't seem to have steeped their ego, any. Which was...typical.

Dareen brushed some of the hair that had been sticking to her forehead out of the way of her face, and tucked it back beneath her hood. Suddenly, there was that prickling sensation in the back of her neck. She was probably safe in here, she thought. This place radiated pompous arrogance, but not backstabbing murdery vibes. Still, force of habit. Dareen stood, walked over to a corner of the room, and leaned against it, crossing her arms. Her right index finger began tracing the line pattern beneath her left sleeve.

The Yellow-Jeweled mercenary thought about her predicament. Right now, her goals were abstract. Something that probably wouldn't do as a proper explanation. Her old job didn't exactly paint her in a positive light. She'd certainly done nothing to help the plea of the Black Widows. She blinked away an image of charred corpses and sniffed, rubbing her tattooed face with the palm of her hand. Dareen was struggling with her place in the world, she needed to reel it back in. These people could be allies. You've barely gotten to know them, Dareen chastised herself. Stop acting so recklessly. She was out of her element. Dareen rarely spent time in the presence of upper class nobility. Often, she just got names and locations from people like Faeril and Xandar. Who to kill, and where to find them. So much money. So few questions. Answers. Justice. Concepts weren't a goal. Dareen had just wanted to get away from her past, and was plagued by a question. Why?

Dorothea. That's the woman she wanted to learn more about. Her employer, though she was presumably much higher up on the totem pole than the people who gave Dareen work. Hidden away in some ivory tower, flooding the lands with gold and blood. Excessive wealth was something Dareen had nothing but contempt for, despite being nothing but greedy and jealous almost her entire life. Well, no one ever said one cannot hold contempt for one's self.

Shaking herself out of her internal monologue, Dareen's brown eyes un-glazed and sharpened on the room around her once again. She zeroed in on Mikhail, this time, ignoring the comments of the brothers.

"Yeah, Mikhail. Watch your words. Wouldn't want to incur the wrath of your superiors." Her words were not genuine, of course, but her tone was dry. She made no attempt to make her sarcasm obvious. Protocol, she thought derisively. An asinine concept, to fluff up the ego's of those who believed themselves better than anyone else simply because of how they were born. It helped no one except those keen on oppressing others. She'd been told by so many people in her life to "know her place" it made her sick.

Reel. It. In. She thought the words again, almost laughing at herself. This place was clean enough without your additional soapbox, Dareen. Regardless, the woman stood in the corner, radiating apathy and looking at Mikhail.

---

---

Fatima allowed Jassen to be bossy toward the innkeeper who seemed to take it in good spirits. She was glad of that. It was certainly he who could toss them out on their asses. She plopped down on the bed and kicked off her muddy boots before flopping backward, arms outstretched. She smiled, turning her head toward her companion. "No bugs. No dust. All in all quite comfortable. Better than some accommodations. Certainly much better than the stables." She sat up and crossed her legs on the bed.

"I know you are trying to protect me but there is no need to be so harsh with people. As a general rule, being kind to others until they give you a reason to be unkind. I think it's a good way to be." She grinned her bright, charming smile saved to placate and calm her court. "Don't be so on edge. You also need your rest, friend. Lest we are unable to travel the winds tomorrow. So relax. We'll take turns keeping watch." She yawned lightly and rested her chin on an upturned palm.

She heard a sudden slam from above and she jumped up from the bed, staring at the offending bit of ceiling. "Mother Darkness," she breathed. "What was that?" Now, who was on edge?

Jandar stayed still and silent in the patch of darkness at the entrance, listening to the confrontation as he got a handle on his panic. Well, here he is, the fool who let himself be stolen from, threatening others for his own carelessness, of course he is. Hell’s fires, if this thing is so important– he cut off the exasperated thought, sighing silently. At least there’d been no signs of what he’d had suspected would be happening…yet. Nonetheless, he’d have to handle this delicately while keeping up his act, playing the self-serving peasant hunter. Outnumbered as he was, revealing he already had the documents would be a death-sentence or worse, however, so he had to come up with a better alternative. His ears perked at Lord Erkyn’s suggestion that the witch do her best to get the stolen pouch back – he could use this! – though his mood soured immediately as Travin suggested mind-breaking. That would not do.

Vague idea of a plan formed, Jandar stored the leather pouch the Shalador Warlord had 'lost' into the Void and undid his invisibility while under the shield of the doorway’s shadow, squared his shoulders, and confidently proceeded toward the stair landing the group was crowded at. “Fellas, fellas,” he rumbled, shaking his head slightly as he approached casually, though momentarily rose his hands in the universal sign of peace, I’m unarmed. “Any louder an'de whole inn woulda’ been listenin’ in,” he grinned irreverently. “Now, ‘fore you go turnin’ the pre'y wi'ch to a mindless pet…” now that he was relatively close to the Green-jeweled Warlord and the Opal witch, he blatantly scented the air around the witch, half-closing his eyes and smiling as if he enjoyed what he discovered.

“Mmm, jus’ fear, no guil’, Lord. Say, if your papers are so impor’an’ as all ‘at, I’ll find ‘em for you,” he practically radiated self-assurance, the kind the other Walord may not be able to pass upon in his desperation. “The wi'chlin’ can show me every hidden nook an’ cranny,” he leered at her at this, “an’ I’ll sniff out the prey, ge'cha stuff back ‘fore the storm’s end,” Jandar stated to the Shaladorian with an arrogant tilt of his head. “Then you gimme a proper paymen’, the girl keeps ‘er darlin’ li’l mind whole,” he cast a dismissive glance her way accompanied by a somewhat condescending and patronizing smile, then turned back to the green-eyed Warlord with all the professionalism of a working-class hunter.

“You can even ‘ave one of your guards,” his tone turned derisive as he rose a mocking eyebrow directly at Travin, “go along wif us. If you fink it’ll ‘elp,” he shrugged at Erkyn in a what-can-you-do manner, though the smile playing about Jandar’s lips conveyed the confidence he had that he could handle the matter on his own – or rather, with just his own skills as long as an inn’s employee showed him around, as he’d mentioned. “’Course, I’ll need ‘a know wha’ we’re lookin’ for. Scrolls? Le’ers? A bag?” he drawled, rolling a shoulder slowly, showing that he cared only to the extent that knowing would help in his search, and get him the gold he desired. “Oh, a scen’ of yours migh’ ‘elp ‘swell. Ey, no strange looks, Lord, ain't no one as good as me at findin' trails, not even a pricey huntin' 'ound. I’d bet my life on it,” the last was said with more seriousness than any of his previous words had been, and the heavy but serene gaze he set on Erkyn just dared the male to accept the challenge – because he was willing to accept and prove it.