The exact moment they entered the town, they all could feel the unpleasant atmosphere in the air. Despite how elegant the town was, not much was necessary for them to realize something was going on. Unlike Fatima, Dareen or Jandar, who were disguising themselves as nobles, merchants and guards, Mikhail's disguise was much simpler, but at the same time, more complicated. With only a ragged cloak over his head to protect against the weather, the biggest reason why his disguise was so good wasn't what he was wearing, but how he walked, how he acted, his movements. Everything, every step given, even his position among the crowd was carefully made in order for him to be inconspicuous and blend with the crowd. Despite being following the others, to most people, he was just another traveler, just as annoyed by their presence as the locals themselves were. For now, there was no need to use his sight shield, but depending where Fatima, Jandar and Dareen were going, blending himself with the locals might be considerably harder... Then he would have to use more advanced methods.

Hushed words and comments said in conspiratorial tones reached Mikhail's ears as they passed in front of the tavern made it clear that something was indeed happening that included the queen. Daria's Red Moon House, someone leaving the manor when the queen herself wouldn't like to. Not only those comments caught Mikhail's attention, but the fact that the Fatima and her escort were being followed by the eyes of several people among the crowd, especially one that was far better dressed than the rest. The moment they passed in front of the tavern though, the same group that was talking about Daria's Red Moon House and this person before became silent, clearly indicating their dislike towards the strange man after he was far from them. The tension in the town was clear, the Queen's guards and the locals weren't on the best of terms and in case something happened, a single spark was all it would be needed for something to happen... Mikhail could very well use that to their advantage depending of the situation.

Location: Smuggler's den in town

Xandar has chased after the shadowy figure to see it had hidden itself away in what looked to be like a smugglers den of sorts. Figures. Shadowy people gravitate towards shadowy places. He had all but shattered the table that was once hiding the entrance, ripping it from where it was and tossing it out of the building with a loud crash. This is probably what led Faeril to follow him, possibly.

”Nosey, are we woman? Why don’t you help Gen or something? I’m busy with our guest.” Xandar grunted, resorting to jumping off the ladder and landing softly, aided by his wings, in fear the whole thing would break under his weight. He looked up and gave a low whistle. ”Great view, but you may want to watch your step. It seems you’ve ripped your dress. Which actually may be a blessing in disguise, you were in need of new ones.”

Xandar turned towards the rest of the room, scanning the various crates and boxes, looking at the fresh dust where the figure stepped. He summoned his sword, clenching it in his right hand. “If you make me search this place, you won’t like the end result when I find you. It’d be best to give yourself up now. Or, better yet, I can burn the whole place to ashes along with you.”

Faeril was less than pleased at the Warlord Prince’s retort. ”Enjoy the view, it’s the only one you’ll get.” Snapped the witch, coloring at her own thoughtlessness. Peering through the darkness, she wondered how on earth he could even see. Her wings folding tightly to her back in the narrow basement, never mind her own workroom beneath her house was not much larger. ”And my clothes are perfectly fine! Perhaps I am not so enthralled by those cumbersome wing slits they cut into fashions now.” She muttered in their shared native language as she wrested with the snared fabric lest the dress tear beyond repair.

There was a slight rasping of a dry throat as a rusty voice echoed through the dark. “Give myself up to what? A Queen’s pleasure? She had her pleasure. I doubt she could take more.” There was a bitterness to the voice. ”Please, just leave me be.”

”Wing slits are very fashionable! And work very effective. Although I usually wear nothing at all.” he murmured back in the same tongue, before looking over towards the voice that called out in the darkness. Xander rest the blade on his shoulder, casting his gaze where the voice came from.

”There is no Queen here, only a Queen Killer. You are within the vicinity of me and my party, therefore I have come to investigate. Nothing else is here besides us and the viper rats, and they don’t make very good company.”

Xandar summoned a bit of fire in his hand, lighting up the area around him as his eyes adjusted to the light, making it easier for both himself and Faeril to see. Mostly her, as his eyes were very keen to the dark, having gone through long nights of pure darkness in combat. ”State your business, and if you have none, I suggest you find yourself somewhere else to hide far away from here.

”And where else can the dead go?” Growled the voice, the fire lighting up the room enough that Xandar could see the corpse. A Shalador man it seemed, wearing the Purple-Dusk. One leg was missing at the thigh, his hands were seared as though put through an inferno as well as most of his left side. HIs face, however, was covered in a hood, a blessing perhaps. The voice issued from beneath it and the gaping hole in his chest which the ragged shirt didn’t quite hide.

”What is it? Can you see who it is?” Hissed Faeril from behind Xandar, the bulk of the Eyrien warrior blocking the way as she hovered behind him. Eager to find out who their watcher was and if there was any potential damage meant to their little group. Blissfully unaware of the twisted remains that spoke to them. Xandar might recall the creeping tales of his youth about the demon-dead. Those of the Blood who lived on after death, feeding on the living. Devouring them. Of course, it was an effective tale to spin to a group of children on a late-night to warn them to be good. ”Must I do everything myself?!”

”The dead belong six feet under, but here you are. A dead man walking. Now give me a good reason why I shouldn’t personally escort you to the grave.” Xandar growled back, cautiously watching the purple-dusk demon dead. He was an ugly son of a bitch, and tales of these demon dead did not speak of them kindly. But either way, he wouldn’t wander all the way here for nothing.

He looked back at Faeril, stepping to the side slightly but still well standing between her and the Shalador man slumped on the ground. His sword was still kept firmly in one hand, pointing at the man, the other holding the fire. ”You may look for yourself, if you like, but you’re not going any farther than my sword. What do you make of our guest?”

Faeril glared at Xandar as he stipulated that she wasn't get closer than his sword to the burned demoan-dead. "I make that he was burned and staked through the chest. Really, what am I supposed to tell you with this lighting and at a distance." Despite her sharp words, Faeril made no move to get closer, her eyes slightly wide as she gazed upon the man.

Rasping, the demon spoke once more. But it was forlorn, tired almost. "What grave? This entire town is filled with the dead. No, not like me. They stayed dead. The Queen and her brat broken them down and slaughtered them for fun." Faeril winced, as those thoughts conjured an imagination of what the stone and wood might show her if she drew out their memories.

Xandar pauses for a moment, listening to the words of the man before vanishing his sword. However, his arm was still protectively covering Faeril. He didn’t think the man could do much or get far in his condition, but he wasn’t going to let his guard down completely. He didn’t know much about his kind, and the stuff he did hear about was bad. However, he would give him the benefit of the doubt. Any person who was wronged by an evil queen had at least a little sympathy from the Reaper.

”Fair enough. I’ve seen many places like this, shattered and broken by a Queen. Instead of making the land prosper they now burn it for their amusement. I’ve lived my life to fight against them… So if what you say is true, we have a common enemy it seems.”

The Eyrien Warlord Prince looked back at Faeril, rolling his eyes at her comment before looking back at the dead man. ”The fact still stands that you, despite the others, are among the living and have not stayed dead. This leads me to believe you have a purpose for it then? Maybe a grudge, if you will.”

”Oh, I got a grudge. Not that I can do much about it.” Rasped the demon, sounding forlorn and bitter. Faeril still glowered at the Warlord Prince for the arm in her way, though she was oddly grateful for it. As a Black Widow she was part of the Hourglass Coven, which had essentially gone underground if they wished to remain free of the twisted Queen. Mothers teaching daughters their Craft lest it be forgotten. Yet lines would fail and die out. Coven growing smaller. Their knowledge was vast, but they only had a limited time. Though she remembered a bit more about the blood she might offer, she kept her silence. Unsure if she wanted to offer something that might cause the demon to attack her. ”The dead aren’t staying about for a grudge. I’ve been along for some decade… I can feel my jewel running low, and ‘fore long it’ll run dry. Think that might as well be my Death.” The man mused raising a twisted hand to push back the cowl and reveal a face that had been melted by flames and a missing ear that had been cut off. ”Killed some as didn’t need killing. For the blood. A woman hiding out here. I shouldn’t have, but I was desperate. I didn’t want to go yet and I was foolish enough to think I might do something to stop those bitches.”

Xandar shook his head, realizing at least part of the rumors were true. The dead did feed off of the living to last a bit longer, but it seemed they weren’t as blood crazed as he thought. Even still, he couldn’t fault the man. He had killed dozens, hundreds, for worse reasons. ”Well in your state I don’t think you’ll be getting any revenge, no. But, revenge is more or less my speciality, and killing twisted Queens and their following is my calling in life.” Xandar looked the man in his hollowed face, taking his arm away from Faeril and crossing it over his chest, his fist on his heart. ”If you have anything useful to share, you can rest easy knowing the Queen that wronged you has a swift death coming.”

”We cannot risk discovery!” Hissed the Black Widow, her eyes narrowing in the dark. ”Killing the Queen of this place is not an option!” It would potentially put their own Queen at risk and she couldn’t do that.

”Did I say right now? No. Quit your bickering woman.” Xandar looked back at the Widow, patting her head with his hand. ”But, is it not our long term goal? To make things right? And even so, we could at least get information that might be useful to us if you play along here.” He said that last bit in their shared tongue, before turning back to the very grotesque looking man on the ground.

”Dead men usually tell no tales, but if you do, I’ll be glad to listen.”

Jandar strolled forward, confidence in every pore of his body, head held high, chin jutted slightly forward, gaze contemptuous. Oh, and it was true contempt that he felt, though unlike what the observers would surely assume, it was not due to the standard Aristo superiority. No, it was because here again were signs of misery and neglect, of the land and its people being drained, tortured. Witchblood bloomed, as it had in Dhemlan Terreille, gazes were wary and afraid – also a staple, apparently. A group of Landens had been sequestered off into what was now the pre-town ghetto. They passed it quickly, passing into the city proper, the guards’ inspection obvious. They hadn’t been stopped or asked any questions – yet.

As they moved past a local tavern, Jandar caught some loud rumors speculating where a certain “he” might have gone, if the Queen had even let him. The Kaeleeran Warlord frowned, working in a bit of a sneer for the sake of the drunks – let them think he was simply disapproving of them rather than considering what they’d discussed. Whoever they’d been talking about, Jandar had a bad feeling about it. The unknown male was allegedly someone eye-catching, notorious perhaps, yet someone under the Queen’s thumb (or someone whom the Queen believed to be under her control) and a person these people were willing to talk about, however slightly. Jandar did not think meeting this person would do them any good, but as their goal was to meet the Queen. Subtly, he tightened his left hand around Dareen’s, or rather, Ranina’s arm where he’d coached her to hold on to. While it would not seem like he was overly conscious of her, he was indeed aware of her posture, her gait, and expression. If needed, he could and would adjust her response or remind her to keep her persona in mind.

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Fatima straightened the wide brimmed black gardening hat she wore. From it hung a veil which covered her disfigured face. Faeril had done a bang up job! She'd had to do very little in order to lend the right amount of disgusting to the image. She has chosen a simple black dress the spoke of her highbred status without being flashy. She wore nothing in the way of adornments beyond the veiled hat.

As she walked she discovered that the limp she had opted for was a little difficult to keep up and in the end made it easier, though painful, to limp. She kept behind Jandar and Dareen, being a bit slower due to her manufactured impairment. She paid no mind to staring eyes or the whispers of the folk. A Queen would not.

As they walked through the town they came closer and closer to something… It coiled and uncoiled around her stomach. It sent her heart into rapid palpitations. She felt like she could hardly catch her breath, like she were falling from a very great height. The closer the wound along that psychic scent the stronger it pulled.

Unnerving, that would be how she would describe it. Utterly unnerving. Did the others feel it too? Just her? Something screamed she stay away. A small, logical portion of her brain. She paused her shambling walk at the entrance to a side street. Innocuous in all but that dark, slithering scent which beckoned her. "There's something…" she started saying but her voice trailed away as she walked down the side street. She would follow it to it's conclusion at the bookstore.

Dareen followed Fatima’s sweeping gesture and opened up the carriage door. Keeping it open with the back of her hand she allowed Fatima inside to the best of her ability and awkwardly sat down with the dress in her lap. Compressing one side of her lower lip she picked the thing up and set it floppily back down. As the coach doors closed behind Fatima the two were left in privacy. Once again she removed her hood to reveal her semi-frazzled black hair that ran in a braid along the side of her head. This revealed the pattern that was usually hidden by her hood that went up and around the back of her ears and vanished down the back of her neck.

"I mean, what’s first, I guess?” She asked the Queen. Fatima smiled kindly, a gesture of understanding and compassion for the discomfort she was sure the woman would experience. They were practically strangers after all. Fatima had not exactly lent herself to a good impression these past few days.

"Firstly you need to undress and I'll help you into the new one. A lady's maid always does up the laces so it would be impossible to do yourself." She reached out a hand to gently touch the woman's hair. "Once we've got you dressed well do your hair and make up. You'll be a whole new woman."

Dareen blinked at the touch but then nodded. "Okay, sure. Sure. Laces...got it." Dareen wasn’t a particularly modest person, but she realised this was the first time she had had an extended conversation with someone who wasn’t part of her company in...years. Since she was a teenager. Let alone having someone help her into new clothes.

Trying not to be too awkward Dareen vanished the hood she held took off and then cleared her throat. Unclasping the belts and straps that kept her clothes from being too loose and held her weapons, one by one the leather implements vanished. Crossing her arms she lifted her red long-sleeved shirt off her body, revealing the sleeveless chainmail tunic underneath. Her bare arms were covered in a line dot pattern similar to the one on her face, though much more intricate.There were also a few scars cut into her arms from long healed wounds. For a moment she hesitated but shaking her head she removed her underarmor, and with a clink and a clank that too vanished into nothingness. Now she was just in her pants, boots, and a white wrapping around her chest. Her torso was just as tattooed as her arms, with the lines doing a kind of swooping circular dance around her breasts and navel. There were ghosts of a few nicks here and there, but the most obvious scar was a particularly grievous one that had been carved to the right of her belly button and was four inches tall.

Face turning red against her will, Dareen spoke. "”Do I uh- how do pants work? With a dress?" She asked and then laughed quietly at her ignorance.

Fatima was utterly fascinated with the markings which swirled like stars over her traveling companion's body. Without thinking much she reached and and traced the dots along Dareen's side before pulling back with a faint apology. Dareen had frozen up a little bit but forced herself to relax. "Pants should be fine, the modified in such a way as to indicate the need for pants. Makes it easier with the height difference. I can finish the hem once it's on."

She lifted a pale cream blouse and handed it to the girl. "This first. And then we'll make the corset work. I'll tie it loose so you can move more easily in it." She pulled at strings on the under item in question. "It might be a bit short but it should work." She was saying it more to herself than to Dareen. "Does the blouse fit?" She turned from the corset to check that seams and movements were all in check. "Ever worn a corset before?"

The Pruulish witch lifted the blouse over her head and put it on " Yeah, it fits. A little small, but it’s fine.". Once again covered she seemed comfortable. Not many people had seen her markings before- let alone touched them. They shared the texture of her skin, of course- the dark red tattoos were inextricably etched into her brown skin. A permanent, inescapable reminder of her past, even more so than the scars given to her by her quarries. A scar could have come from anywhere- but the markings were very specific. They only came from one place.

"Um, a corset? I don’t think so." Her old red shirt vanished into nothingness as she spoke.

A devilish grin spread over Fatima's face. "You are in for a treat!" She directed Dareen how to stand, arms up while she laces the object around her middle, just over her chest. It stopped a bit short over her hip bones but it would be passable. Then Fatima began to tighten the laces, cinching Dareen's waist.

Dareen raised her arm to look at the enthusiastic Queen behind her. With a look of mild concern she asked, "Is this a treat?” She asked. "You wear these often, then?" She asked with a small wince.

"Only when forced," Fatima replied with a small laugh. "What do your tattoos mean?" Her chatter was idle and congenial as she finished tightening the bodice. Still loose and Dareen could breathe. But not exactly comfortable.

Dareen was a terrible liar. So instead, she only decided to give some of the story. "They are uh, a tradition. From where I come from." She said, staring into the middle distance. ”I got them when I was sixteen. They mean I am a warrior." She thought back to that long evening so many years ago, where she was told not to squirm as the artisan marked her in that glowing warm tent.

She finished up the laces, tying and tucking them away. Once satisfied with how the corset sat on Dareen's frame she then offered up the dress. "Over your head," she directed. "That is amazing. There are so many of them. It must have taken a great deal of time."

Dareen smirked and then somewhat clumsily followed Fatima’s direction, placing the dress loosely over herself. "Yeah. A great deal of time. Had to spend an entire biting on a wooden spoon.” This was one of those odd memories that was absolutely miserable upon living it, but that Dareen had come to look upon with a strange sense of fondness.

"Is this right?” The ex-mercenary asked, turning her back to Fatima.

"Yes, lovely!" She began to position the dress properly over Dareen and tying the laces in place so that it hugged her curves tightly. "What about the scar on your stomach. Was that part of it or were you attacked?" She knelt down in front of the woman, pulling a needle and thread from the air. "Keep your arms at your sides." She licked the thread before pushing it through the needles eye.

Dareen cleared her throat as the dress began to tighten. She didn’t answer for a moment, lowering her arms at her sides. "Uh, no. That a few years later in a fight.” That was the worst pain she had ever felt and the closet she had come to dying. Dareen was dancing around the true context of all these situations, avoiding telling Fatima who gave her the tattoos and who gave her the scar. Fatima didn’t yet know Dareen’s past as a mercenary and for now she would much rather keep it that way.

"Oh, you have lead a very exciting life it would seem. The proof is all over." She carefully, but with speed, hemmed the dress so that it hung correctly and with no frayed edges. It was shorter in the front, revealing Dareen's legs below the knee and longer in the back so that the light fabric would float behind her as she walked. "I'm sorry for asking but… what has you gathered here with us? Most I know and I think you've had this sort of conversation before my arrival… but your presence is baffling. That is not to say unwanted! Please don't think that. I just… you're different from the rest of us."

"Yeah, you could say that." As Fatima became more and more curious as to why the mercenary had joined this little cabal of aristocrats, Dareen’s throat was impeccably dry. "”W-well. I, uh..." Did this seriously have to happen while she was having a dress put on?

"...I have an interest in seeing the fall of Queen Dorothea. And Faeril decided to...to let me join her. It’s kind of a long story, you know?” She managed. If Fatima decided to ask Faeril, it was probably all over. No way Fatima would regard Dareen with anything but disgust if the matter of Dareen’s origins became apparent to her.

"That much is obvious." She said dryly. She finished the hem and cut the thread with a flick of her wrist. "I mean, why throw your lot in with this odd crew? There is much contention in the group, you are not kept to us in the way that I am to them. Take a seat." She gestured to one of the carriage seats as she stood. Fatima then produced a tiny latched trunk. "Face paint," she explained. "What I mean to ask is… what is keeping you here among us woman warrior."

Sitting down, Dareen couldn’t meet Fatima’s gaze, Instead she focused her attention on the tiny latched trunk. "I...well, where else would I go? You are the only people I know of who are going against Queen Dorothea, right?" Dareen asked, questioning her own truth.

"I suppose you're right. It's a common thought. Not so much action though." She set the box to the side before opening it to reveal an amazing array of beautiful bottles, tins and tubes in endless colors.

Dareen nodded. "People are scared, I guess. I...I know I was. " Admitting this felt good. "But we’re just getting started. Can’t all just be dresses and makeup." She joked, glancing over at the cosmetic arsenal Fatima had at her disposal.

Fatima grinned. "In any case, I'm glad you're here to help me set the world on fire. You've got a good energy." She opened various bottles and containers to find the right concoction of paints to apply to Doreen's face. "I don't want people to feel afraid of us anymore." She gently began to apply a coppery powder to the woman's face.

Dareen was about to say something but closed her mouth as Fatima began placing powder. Then Dareen closed her eyes as Fatima moved up her face and continued not to say anything, instead breathing slowly as if she was worried about inhaling the substance. In the meantime, she internally considered Fatima’s words. Good energy? That was a first. Did Fatima have some kind of magical energy detector? Or was it just a figure of speech?

Setting aside the powder, she then cocked her head to the side. "I don't think I have anything strong enough to hide your tattoos. It should be okay though. The powder will at least make them less obvious."
Dareen opened her eyes and looked at Fatima. "So...I could pass as a nobleman’s wife?" She pinched the shoulders of her dress and lifted them a little bit and shrugged. "Is there a mirror in there?". She placed the finishing touches of a pewter eye shadow, dark kohl, and a bright red lipstick.

"Here," she plucked the mirror from amongst the containers and handed it over. "Of course you could. You're very lovely."
Dareen touched her newly done up face in the mirror. She pulled down the skin on her cheek and opened her eye up wide. After a while she laughed mirthlessly. "I feel ridiculous, Fatima. But, hey, are we done now?" She said, still looking at herself in the mirror. It was like looking into some kind of bizarre alternate reality.

"Should be fine once you let your hair down. Yeah… we're done." Her voice was filled with sincerity when she spoke again. "You are quite marvelous my dear."

Dareen shrugged and smirked, letting the mirror fall into her lap and quirking her head at Fatima. Reaching up she undid the braids and knots of her hair and let it fall down to just past her chin, running her fingers through it like a comb to straighten it out a little. Swearing disbelievingly in her native tongue, she slapped Fatima crudely on the shoulder, a soldier reassuring a comrade of their deeds.

"Thanks for the effort, Fatima. Let’s hope this is worth it, eh?" With that she stood up straight, put on her best dignified face, and left the carriage.



Now as Ranina Rentrick stepped out of the carriage, all done up and "pretty", Dareen followed her "husband" into down. She tried to keep her back straight, and as Jandar would instruct, her arm looped through his. Trying to put on a dispassionate, formal stride, Dareen tipped up her nose and observed the town. Perhaps she was a bit too observant and bit too aware of her surroundings, she pulled off a somewhat convincing illusion. Now she just had to keep her mouth shut and let hubby here do all the talking. The guards here were clearly just hired goons some aristocrat plucked off the street. Nothing more than warm bodies to scare off the rabble and be meat shields for material possession. Still, they were antsy. Dareen tried not to look at them for too long, though. Try to act as though she was letting the hobbling hag and her spouse worry about the troublesome little things like that.

Of course there was the distinct scent of witchblood on the air aswell. All of this combined to fill the Pruulish young woman with the sense that something was about to go wrong, and a fight would start. If so she would feel woefully vulnerable. Dareen brushed a strand of black hair out of her eyes. When was the last time she ever had to do that? Besides when washing it, her hair was permanently tied tightly up into it's braid. Now it hung freely and bobbed up and down and to the side like some kind of maniac. Just begging to caught on or by something.

It was nice, though, to go unchallenged. From her brief experience of travelling alone, everyone was eager to make snide remarks and prove their worth against the woman warrior that dared enter their town. But now, the proverbial shoe was on the other foot. Though it was cheating, since they were obviously more wary of Jandar than they were of her. Whether it be her fellow mercenaries or her fake husband, if she wanted to travel somewhere with any modicum of respect she had to be side by side with a man. How...annoying. Perhaps this annoyance in the vague direction of the entire world would add to her persona.

Every once in a while she had to re-check her gait, resisting the urge to drop her hand to where her scabbard would be or to slouch her shoulders. How did people do this all day? The sooner this was over, the better. Thankfully she wasn't alone, though she got the sense that Fatima derived some sort of cheeky joy from her Ugly Queen persona, and Jandar was probably just acting as he always did except with a different hairstyle or whatever.

Sighing, Dareen kept her eyes foreward. Fatima began to speak, but trailed off. Dareen turned her head to look back at Fatima and raised her eyebrows before looking at the road ahead.

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The Eyrien Black Widow looked about ready to spit nails at the Warlord Prince as he patted her head like she was an excitable child. To the dead-man-walking, or sitting rather, it was all too amusing. A wheezing chuckle eased through his throat as the two exchanged words. "Not much of a tale. I was a tailor's assistant in the town. A decent fellow- now half a century dead. Not like I am, he's dead and gone. A Whisper in the Darkness." There was a wistfulness to the tone of the demon dead. "We were making a dress for the bitch's daughter. Lady Marthea was displeased with the dress her daughter had foisted upon us to make. Who were we to say no?" Xandar would well know the tales of those who refused a Queen's relative. The punishment from them was often just a smidge below what the Queen themselves could dole out. Daughters were especially cruel and if that daughter was of the same caste as her mother? Then woe betide the wretch who defied the family!

Nodding slightly to himself the demon dead sneered. "'Course they didn't want to lose the tailor quite yet. There was a exquisite bit of entertainment that was going on they might be invited to. They would have to look their best." A scoff came from Faeril as she bared her teeth in anger. An icy chill that was filling the basement of a witch's rage, something the Shalador man did not notice. "So they dragged me to their 'rat pit' and gathered up all those pesky Shaladorians who thought rebelling might be a good idea. Got the traders as well to spread the word in part. In part to turn it into a bit of a festival." Struggling with the emotions of his death, the Shalador demon dead fell silent for long minutes. "Found the tailor dead a month later. They fed him to the rats. I've wanted that bitch Marthea dead since my death, but couldn't get close to her. The guards and the town were... repulsed by me. Diseased they thought. Thought I was too, til I drank the blood of some poor guard only trying to carry out his job so his family could eat. Knew what I was then, and I envied that my master never joined me."

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The alley was narrow and dirty, something that would turn away even the most curious of the aristocratic class. If they even knew it was there. The traffic seemed to be those too broken to care that the subdued scent of a Queen wafered through the narrow space as Fatima wandered over cobblestone and brick lanes. Broken beams looked to have blocked some areas, but there was a sense about them that power had moved them off the side where they were stacked neatly. A man's footprints tracked deeper into the dim alley as it curved and twisted deeper into the city of Eldra. The sense of power growing strong and persistent enough that now any who followed Fatima could sense it. A subtle and delicate warning of danger and a seducing lure of sweetness that could not be replicated. It was dark and heavy on the air. Dareen would feel the intimidating presence of someone who far our ranked her Yellow Jewel. Even Mikhail and Jandar with their Grey and Red respectively would know this power to be darker than their own. Yet it was a subtle and twisting spell that urged Fatima to follow this wild and dark track. A spell wove in the dark of the night in a desperate bid for a future not drenched in blood and malformed by the greed of what the Blood were becoming.

"We don't have any by him sadly. The Queens' never approved of Halmer's works and opinion-" The weary-looking older man who ran the bookstore- and in part black market- with his young daughter and her son informed the well-dressed man. Tugging his white beard the man frowned as he and Saetan SaDiablo stared at the shelves that took up the back of the shop, and could be hidden by a screen which would look like a solid wall. A small alcove giving room for a person to hide as well. The Black Jeweled Warlord Prince had stopped by the shop a time or two before, and the shopkeeper was eager to help this valued customer try to find something to his liking. Never questioning that despite the fact it was going to be in close proximity to the Queens that the book would be safe. It was well known among certain circles that the most powerful man who supposed served Dorothea was under no such notion to his own mind. Though it was not something one brought up in the course of a conversation with the well-rumored man.

"The purges. Yes, I am well aware. Though I had hoped that some of his works had survived." There was bitter disappointment in Saetan's tone that he couldn't quite mask. He had hoped that some small rebellion might take his mind off of Laska and her little games. A book was certainly a way to do that and not look overly conspicious. "I think I shall look for a bit more, if you wish to take care of other things."

The propieter of the shop didn't need another dismissal to leave the Black Jeweled Hyallian alone with the books as he moved back to the counter. The rear wall being hidden by more shelves of equally and far less valuable of books, the windows letting in dim and dusty light. In the long term, it was a small sacrifice to keep the Queens away from his livelihood. With a forlorn look at the faded and peeling 'Ambrose & Sons: Books and Basics' that was half ways gone form the window. A legacy that had been destroyed with his father and brother. He had escaped with a lame hand and a family that had been shattered and shellshocked. Their mother had never recovered, and if she did he hadn't seen her since she had been dragged off to the rat pit. Shaking away the old memories form his head the man went back to his book to tally out the total of purchases so far.

Jandar’s head snapped to the side, body stilling, eyes narrowing – Fatima had wandered off into a grimy side-street, drawn by something. The aristocrat stilled his ‘wife’, stopping her in her tracks as well, though it looked like she noticed the Queen’s reckless action already. Jandar was apprehensive, both because Fatima had strayed and because he, himself, had rather a bad premonition in regard to what could have possibly drawn the witch into the alleyway. Nothing for it though; he’d have to follow.

“Forgive my cousin, beloved,” he sighed out loud, making it sound as if eccentricity like this was to be expected. Frankly, in Fatima’s case, that was closer to a truth than a lie. “Her flights of fancy occasionally manifest in such oddities,” he claimed, tone mainly dismissive, only the slightest hint of his true exasperation bleeding through. “I am afraid we must follow, though I would prefer you did not have to gaze at this cesspool,” he practically spit out the word, suffusing it with contempt, “much less walk through it any longer,” he concluded. Jandar then gently led Dareen through the alley.

He strolled through the filthy narrow street, adopting a moue of distaste. Faking disgust was much better than the alternative, after all. As they progressed, a psychic scent made itself known, and it sent shivers up Jandar’s back. At this distance, he discerned only that there was a male with a darker jewel than his own ahead. Nonetheless, his step stuttered briefly, heart rate picking up, breaths becoming sharper and quicker. He had a sense that this unknown person might be as powerful as Xandar, if not–

Jandar shuddered, and urged Dareen to quicken their pace, though he took care that they were not hurrying unduly. Their pace was such that it was obvious they did not want to linger – nothing more. Subtly, the Warlord leaned down to ‘Ranina’, whispering in her ear. “Be careful,” was all that he muttered. Worst case scenario, she could take up arms alongside him. Though Jandar was uncertain if Mikhail had followed them into this obscure pathway already, he dearly hoped he had. The unfolding situation would likely call for the Prince’s unique expertise.

The Warlord’s hurried movements brought him and his partner near the dilapidated bookshop shortly. The scent, which is what had presumably drawn Fatima in the first place, was getting stronger, thicker. Jandar’s hold on Dareen tightened, though he did not notice. Nor was he aware that the fingers of his other hand had dug into his own palm, drawing blood. He was still breathing too harshly, pale, wide-eyed, and panicked. Jandar only distantly noted this, and it was with a tremendous effort that he was able to force himself back into rationality.

He was on edge of a realization, figurative micrometers away from grasping a certain understanding, but while his mind whirred and spun, Jandar also acted. His gaze strayed from Fatima, to the bookshop, and back, a cycle he repeated once more before he forced himself to remain fixed on his Queen. “Cousin,” he hissed with feeling, reproof and terror mixing into something akin to anger. Then again, maybe his utter dread was blatant - he couldn't rightly tell at the moment. Disentangling from Dareen, Jandar stepped in front of the Pruulish witch, partly to offer his body as a sort of cover to her, partly to get closer to the Queen. There was something…Someone. World-shattering. Wordless. Wonderful? Terrorizing? Ahead. They were just ahead. He felt it. The Queen obviously felt it too. But who wouldn't?

Location: Smuggler's den in town

Xandar nodded, listening to the man as he spoke. He thought maybe asking him about what he had seen would be useful to the warlord prince, but it seemed he was nothing but a dead man trying to cling on to life. A sad existence really. He was going to be of no use to him, and while he had sympathy for those under an unjust Queen, it only got him so far. Besides, he wasn’t about to give the man any ideas.

”Well, I hope that the afterlife treats you better than here. You can die happy knowing that Lady Marthea is going to repent soon enough.”

As soon as those words left his lips, his hand shot out in front of him and his sapphire jewel glowed in the dim light. A psychic blast shot from his hand, landing in the heart of the undead man and practically vaporizing him. It was also a direct hit on the jewel, the most important part, as the thing shattered and bits scattered to the ground. Xandar sighed softly, turning to Faeril.

”Well that was a waste of time. All that for a sob story. Come on, don’t rip your dress this time. Unless you wish to be carried. Or thrown.”

”Carry or throw me and it’s the last thing you will do.” The Black Widow snapped at the man her temper frayed by the realization that one of the Blood’s mysteries was true. The demon-dead had been rumored amongst the Hourglass Coven before but now… Shaking her head the Eyrien woman snipped in annoyance. ”And I would hardly call his story such a thing. It’s a common one or are you so blind to what goes on?”

”Oh so angry all the time are we? It was a fair question. If you plan on climbing up yourself then get a move on, will you? It doesn’t smell great down here.” Xandar chuckled as he ushered her to the ladder, groaning as he heard her complain more to him. Why did the woman have to be this way?
It would be much easier if she coddled him and sucked his dick like the majority of women he met, ”Yes, the oh so common story of eating poor innocent people to save his poor miserable life. Charming. Maybe I should have let him eat you too, I don’t get a thanks for keeping you alive anyways. It’s just expected of me now.”

Faeril’s wings rustled as she glared dangerously at Xandar. Why in the name of Mother Dark did she have to be around this irritable male?! Her lads were well mannered if a bit overbearing and Jandar proved to be a likeable enough fellow. ”I am hardly angry all the time. I’m merely surrounded by muscle bound fools, most of it!” A underhanded compliment that Faeril would deny giving. ”The face remains he was the first demon dead that I’ve seen! There were things that I could have learned from him about that-” She grasped for the word finding the phrase ‘phase of the Blood’ unnerving as their own death was carefully courting them. A wrong move could bring their little resistance to the end and broken on the orders of the Queens desperate to keep their power.

”Yes, and if it wasn’t for this muscle bound fool you’d be dead or worse. Or, at the very least, without wings or fingers.” He muttered, his blood steadily boiling as he rustled his own wings, spreading them out long and wide and flexing them out. It was a natural habit and a show of dominance when in a squabble, showing just how large the Eyrien really was. There were few people who could simply get on his nerves that he couldn’t easily intimidated or beaten to submission. She was a rare case. Beautiful, smart, and important to stay alive. And also a bitch. ”Well if you so whole-heartedly wanted to learn, maybe I should have let you get eaten and you could have asked him yourself while he feasted on your corpse. Maybe you could have found out first hand, huh? Speaking of death, I’m much more concerned by the death trap you sent our friends in than some science experiment, frankly.”

”It’s not a trap.” Though Faeril didn’t seem quite certain of her own words. ”It was something that the Queen must do. If we cannot convince him, then all is already lost. Besides, I can handle a rotting corpse well enough- I deal with you do I not?” She brushed away her own discomfort with a snipped insult towards Xandar.

”Oh bullshit, that it isn’t… His words stopped dead before he heard the words… convince him? He got seriously angry, practically wrapping his wings around the both of them as he stood up close to Faeril, looking down upon her. ”You mean to tell me you sent them out their to negotiate with HIM? Of ALL people? That isn’t a death trap, that’s a death sentence. He works for the worst Queen of them all, they’ll be killed in seconds, or worse. And you want him on our side? I half half a mind to fly there right now and level that whole city just to get them out…” Xandar grumbled, turning away from Faeril and grabbing a large wooden beam that was broken off. He split it with his bare hands, ripping it in half and launching the pieces into the opposite wall. Burn marks charred the broken pieces, and it was clear the Warlord Prince was getting a bit heated.

Faeril glowered and drew her wings in tight as Xandar went on his tirade. As much as she wanted to argue, she couldn’t exactly say he was wrong. But there were things at work that she couldn’t admit. After all, the oversized brute learning he had been wrapped into a spell to gather a Court about Fatima. ”It is necessary. I told you it is not our place to intervene in that meeting. The web drew her forth, and Fatima must make the choice. I know my Craft.” Growled the Black Widow defensively, feeling the undercurrent of anger off Xandar. An angry Warlord Prince wasn’t to be trifled with lightly. Her wings flaring wide as he turned about to take his frustration out on a rotting beam. ”The pieces are moving.”

The angry warlord prince took deep breaths, trying to calm himself down a bit and not let his anger out. After all, they were in hiding. If he did anything too rash he would surely attract some unwanted attention. But still, this was an impossible situation and there was nothing he could do but sit around and watch it all unfold. He wanted to be the one making changes, doing the work that needed to be done. He felt… powerless. ”This… this better work out, for your sake and for mine. If I sense so much as a bit of trouble I’m burning that village to the ground and nothing is going to stop me. As much as I hate and don’t trust the majority of them around my Queen, I’ll need to trust them, I suppose.”

Xandar brushed past Faeril as he took a standing leap all the way up the ladder, landing inside the house as he took a few steps out into the open. He saw a wandering viper rat and walked up to it, punting it several hundred feet into the distance and out of sight, surely rupturing all of its internal organs. ”I fucking hate rats.”

The softer beat of Faeril as she slipped from the open trapdoor and landed before the hearth of the house where the demon-dead had sought shelter. A bit of spellwork would go unnoticed, she figured. Hearing the death cry of a rat, she huffed an annoyed breath. The irritating, puffed up… Turning she gave Xandar a chiding look. ”The mighty Reaper hates rats… Lovely to know. And yes, you’ll need to trust us. We all have the same goal in the end. Save for your obsession for courting death.” What else would he call cuddling her in that damn bed? Or the constant battles he got into? So typical of a Eyrien Warlord Prince! His mother probably wanted to rip his wings off when he was a youth!

”Yes, the Reaper hates many things and wishes to slaughter even more. But one of the things the Reaper hates more than anything is stuck up, know-it-all, quick-witted women like you who walk around and just bitch up a storm. Bitch at me, bitch about this and that, bitch about the world. I fucking get it, and it’s old. I’ve lived a long life, and I obsess over death because it’s all I know. It’s been killed or be killed. Strength or weakness. You killed to live, you killed for what you believed in, all problems ended in violence. I don’t care how smart or wise someone is, if that man wants them did he’ll make it happen. True strength is what runs this world…” Xandar said very angrily before his tone softened, and he turned away towards the horizon. He bit his lips, thoughts and memories flooding his head before closing his eyes.

”This… isn’t the life I wanted. Not by a long shot. I just wanted a better world for my people. For all of us. And I had to be strong for them. For me. But now? I’ve been running, hiding, for years from the likes of them. And now I get a bit of hope, and the one man with a darker jewel than me is face to face with her? What am I supposed to feel? Relieved? At this rate it might be easier to live out the end of the world on an island like my comrades. A few moments of peace.”

Faeril studied Xandar and gave a sigh, moving to pat the taller Eyrien on the arm. ”No one wants the life of a rogue, except those deranged or mad or totally uncaring of the Blood’s honor.” The words were practiced and soothing from Faeril’s years of mending hearts and minds, but there was an awkward stilt to her words as the Black Widow continued. ”I bitch because I’ve wrapped myself in my own armor. Our years are harder and longer than the short-lived races and I envy them their lifespans in these troubled times. I watched the Queen’s decimate the Hourglass and my own family. No one wants to see what Dorothea has been doing. And so I dream and call and weave. I doubt that anyone wants to be Hyall’s whore either, to a bitch whose tastes are more than the Queens we have met.” Turning she walked back towards the ruins. ’And you forgot ‘outdated’ in your description of me.”

Xandar stiffened up at the pat but relaxed a bit, the heat released from his body as he listened. He knew she was right, everybody had all their problems with this Queen, all had hardships, and it would take all of them to do it. He couldn’t do everything on his own anymore. Trusting and relying on people is what got him hurt in the first place, but, maybe it’s what would heal him after all. Only time would tell, and he would just have to wait to see how this all panned out. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he walked next to her. ”Perhaps that’s true. But, maybe I’m a bit old fashioned myself.”

”Oh, really. I couldn’t tell.” Drawled Faeril as she paused before the hearth again, pulling a small square of wood and a ball of string from a pouch at her waist. ”Do you require something, or can I do this without interruption? I doubt I need to give you the lecture that I do not require an escort again.”

”Yeah, funny. The last time I believed that, it didn’t end so well.” Xandar dusted off a rogue chair that was somewhat intact and put it against the wall, sitting down with a huff as he pulled up the hood of his cloak. ”Look, I’ll just nap peacefully here while you go about your business. You won’t even know I’m here.” said the warlord Prince, before pulling up a sight shield and effectively disappearing from sight.

Dareen had assumed that Fatima was just taking a mild detour, but the Queen drudged on ahead down the dark alleyway. Nodding dismissively at Jandar, Dareen furrowed her eyebrows and followed Fatima behind. She wanted to call out and ask what Fatima was doing, but her role was a silent one and she didn't want to give herself away. Interlocking her arm with Jandar's she followed behind, trying to act all uppity and snooty at the mild disarray at the environment around here. As they continued forward, her discomfort need no longer be manufactured. A powerful Jewel lay ahead. Dareen had spent her time around powerful Jewels before but this was dark. Darker than even Jandar's. As Jandar picked up the pace Dareen caught wind of his anxiousness and his feelings of worry only amplified Dareen's own.

She began to breathe quicker, and she swallowed dryly at the sensation of Jandar tightening his grip on her. Sweat began to dig away at her makeup and she nervously scanned the environment. Where was Fatima going? Who's Jewel was so dark? The feeling was only getting stronger. Jandar than disengaged from Dareen and interposed himself between her and Fatima. The mercenary in disguise's chest was beginning to swell with fear. In this god damn dress. She felt naked! Without the cool feeling of protective cloth and chainmail weighing against her skin she was utterly exposed. This dress might asewll be tissue paper. Without her weapons, either. They were but a moment of concentration away, but sometimes that's all it took. Mikhail was supposed to be following them, right? Dareen turned her head around, eyes wide, searching the rooftops but finding nothing. If Jandar's disguise was breaking, Dareen's was already broken. Her fingers clawed at the thin air, wrapping themselves around the handle of a blade that wasn't there. This was oppressive. No backup. No plan. Not even a hood. She always wore that hood. Her ears were cold and Dareen always thought they stuck out too much to the sides. Was that really relevant right now? Once again she found herself brushing her damnable hair out of her face only to find it had begun to stick to it.

"What are we doing?" She whispered harshly, the fear in her voice making itself apparent in her rapid, trembling canter of speech.

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She stood before the bookstore, hardly aware of the uproar she had caused in her companions. Her mind - her entire being - was focused on the enticing and terrifying psychic scent which had drawn her here. She clasped her hands together at her stomach and stared at the faded letters upon the dirty window. An all too familiar scene somehow made spectacular by all of the things she was feeling. Her breath came in quick, short bursts as she just stood completely engulfed in this odd web.

If she had to describe it, this scent that had a complete hold upon the young Grey Queen, it would be like candy. Sweet and bitter. Caramel dipped in salted dark chocolate. Followed by a shot of rum. Intoxicating. Heady. Exhilarating. Jumping off a cliff into deep, warm water and letting it cover her in complete darkness. Warm. Velvety. It was consuming.

"Cousin."

The word broke her from her trance. With a start she turned to Jandar and her eyes then traveled to Dareen. She saw more than she heard the words that come from the warrior woman's mouth. Fatima had to consider her actions a moment. What would a Queen do? One who lived beneath Dorothea's thumb? Well, she wouldn't have followed this disgusting slum path. She wouldn't be standing outside of a decrepit book store. She wouldn't be about to enter. But... Jandar could feel it too... So could Dareen... With a sly smile, partially hidden by the lace veil, she said, "I want a book." She realized she was putting everyone in danger by doing this. There was selfishness in this action. She could not deny that. However, it felt so completely right. As if she were falling into her warm, downy bed after a long day.

Before she could be stopped she hobbled to the door, opened it, and stepped inside.

Fatima's first impression was of how age showed in all corners of the establishment. Dust, decay, and the sweet scent of old paper. She breathed deeply, enjoying the way it washed over her in conjunction with the power of the enticing jewel. She stood a moment at the entrance, the last sounds of the jingling bell dying amongst the dust particles. The books and the thing that drew her battled for her attention. So many fine, delicate novels. She was perusing a shelf before she knew it, her eyes scouring the shelves for anything of interest while her subconscious drew her closer to the thing which called to her.

One didn't needed much to realize that there was something going on the town... The rumors and the overall atmosphere was enough for one to see that something was wrong. Despite that, nothing had happened with Jandar, Dareen or Fatima, and their disguises were still fine. Until Fatima suddenly walked off to a dark alley. Such sudden deviation from their normal path would not only certainly be noted by anyone watching them but the particulars alley Fatima entered was far too dirty and unwelcoming for anyone who was supposed to be in the upper classes to even consider going. The most alarming thing about that though was the feeling that Mikhail had when looking to the alley... A feeling that was rare for him to feel... A power darker than his own, by a noticeable margin. Every part of Mikhail's body screamed for him to be extra careful. Such opponent wasn't someone he could hope to win if they met face to face...

Even though Mikhail's disguise was more suited for going in such places, after feeling that power, he was put on maximum alert. Moving like a shadow, Mikhail activated his sight shield and went after Fatima. He knew that he couldn't trust even in his own sight shield if he ever met face to face against such an opponent and thus, he used every and any technique he had, being nothing but a shadow, even if someone were able to pierce his sight shield, he would have a hard time finding him immediately.

Mikhail did notice how Jandar tried to minimize the damage done to their disguises due to Fatima having walked to that alley, but their movements were most certainly already noticed. If they ever met whoever was responsible for such dark power, they might have to throw their disguises away instantly if they had to survive... Both him and Dareen knew the gravity of the situation, judging by how they were moving themselves. Fatima's wanderings soon took them outside an old, decrepit bookstore, going in soon after. Unable to go in without making his presence painfully obvious, Mikhail sat down, hugging his own legs in the corner of the alley, next to a trash bin, using the ragged cloak to hide his face and his body. To anyone who looked, he was just a poor beggar, but Mikhail himself was incredibly aware and cautious of what was going on inside the bookstore, ready to move if anything seemed to be slightly wrong.

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The Black Widow merely gave an annoyed huff as she began to weave the spell. Craft was a delicate thing that required one's concentration. The Black Widow's specialty all the more so as the line between sanity and madness was so very fragile. Yet small little distracts kept popping up. Minor annoyances that ruffled the Eyrien woman's infamous temper. A heart of ice or a heart of iron. Cold and uncaring as her patients sometimes called her to be. Yet now something was nibbling at that heart and making her cool and unflappable personality shift. Finally, she collapsed the web and tossed it into the forgotten fireplace. A ball of witchfyre following to burn the spell into nothing more than ash. Turning a cold gaze on where the Eyrien Warlord Prince had been sitting. "What did you mean it did not end well?! That 'last time' was merely a fluke after a night spent healing a madman and your own injuries. I can well take care of myself."

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As the door opened the shopkeeper looked up, fear flickering across his face at the sight of a well dressed Aristo woman. Few of that sort ever visited his shop. When they did, they usually sent a servant rather than come themselves or were expected to be waited on rather than browse the shelves themselves. This one, however, had gone straight to the shelves giving him no time to attempt to slip out form behind the counter to assist her or to warn his other client. Let along try to hide the wall of those books that would surely cost him his other hand and most likely everything attached. Scrambling in an attempt anyways, the old man bowed stiffly as he raised his voice a bit louder than necessary in the dead quiet of the shop. "Is there anything I can help you with, Lady=? Would you rather sit while I fetched the books that might interest such a woman as yourself?"

The books were clean, though the shelve themselves were old and worn. A slight coating of dust covering what didn't hold a book. The chairs where a client might sit and read were clean by the standards of those who were not Aristo. Comfortable as well, but any Lady of 'respectable' status would turn up her nose at them. Webs hung in the corners and the candles in the holders were old. As if they should have been replaced or used but hadn't. It wasn't exactly uncommon among the lower class if they were cutting costs. A sad fact if a town was being squeezed far too tight by the local Queen. Catching the pitched and the warning of the shopkeeper's voice, Saetan looked up. He was a tall man, but dark. Blending into the shadows as he listened, reading the psychic scent that was alluring to him and disgusting at the same time.

There was a Queen in the store.

Oh, he hated them. Dispised that twisted caste that was destroying the Blood and all they stood for. Yet there was a subtle sweetness to this psychic scent, one that he couldn't stray from. So he waited and listened. Absently using his Craft to close the secret panel and hide the books that could damn the shopkeeper and his family. Perhaps it was that he was curious, but he felt a spell woven into that scent. One that was free of the rot that Dorothea spread. Who would be so bold to try to spell him?

Meanwhile, in the alleyway, the dark scent still swirled. A few people wandered past the trio, keeping to themselves and hurrying along. Not paying too much attention to the faces around them. Especially not the well-dressed couple despite how they acted. Most tried to press themselves into the wall. One was a smaller figure, no more than a child. A lad by the looks of it. Who hesitated as they turned the corner, spying Jandar and Dareen in their disguises. Slipping away the lad moved with haste as though he had seen enough, or perhaps too much.

Jandar could feel his teeth grinding together as he stared at Fatima, who happily pranced inside. With a shuddering inhale and exhale, he shook off a small part of his panic. He couldn’t just remain here and gibber incomprehensively; he had to act, to function. The Warlord turned to Dareen, only peripherally noting that any other inhabitants were fearfully keeping to themselves. He gazed down at the Pruulish witch, who was obviously distressed. His mouth twitched unpleasantly as he realized that he couldn’t afford to spend his time dealing with her. “I am going inside,” he stated, surprisingly calmly considering everything that was going on. “Whether you'd prefer to follow inside or wait here…take care,” he told her. What else could he do? Jandar nodded at Dareen, turned around, and entered the bookshop himself.

Proceeding was like wading through waist-high mud; slow, arduous, distressingly endless. All because of that deepest, darkest power. Jandar was viscerally aware, that he could lose his figurative footing and be sucked in to drown at any time. Whenever that man took offense or perhaps even decided to act on a whim. Worst, Jandar could not reveal himself to be Kaeleeran in front of such dubious characters as the shopkeeper. The Warlord forced himself to move forward with a brisk pace, approaching Fatima. “Cousin,” he once again reprimanded, letting annoyance and exasperation suffuse his tone. He saw the one-armed proprietor heading his Lady’s way as well, and glared at the male. This situation absolutely did not need more people. Jandar scowled, moving to stand protectively between the Queen and the owner of the shop. “Scram, old man,” he snapped, a growling undertone to his voice as he gazed disdainfully at this annoyance. He was fairly certain Fatima hadn’t actually entered with the purpose of browsing or buying anything, so they could do without one more complication. Now, the question was only when he would deign to appear.

Ranina watched her husband's cousin followed by her husband vanish inside the bookstore. He offered for her to walk inside but, if this presence was anywhere near the inside of that bookstore she would much rather stay outside. Someone caught her eye, though, a boy, a child. They made eyecontact, and he vanished around the corner. Dareen recognized someone who felt like they knew too much. Had they been made? Did this kid know who they were? Dareen wasn't exactly blending in anymore. Everyone around them was afraid of the nobles, but in truth it was Dareen who had never felt more vulnerable and exposed. Damn this accursed disguise! What was Fatima doing in there?

But what about this boy? Children were often more knowledgable than most would like to believe. Having been a street urchin herself at some point, the Pruulish Witch knew what it was to do anything to survive. Even the smallest monetary reward for information on potential traitors would be worth the risk. Dareen turned to face him and tried to keep him in her line of sight. "Uh, excuse me, little boy?" She called out, speaking for the first time since she had entered town. She tried to keep up the veil of sophistication. Her throat had dried up. Pushing past some people in the alleyway, she began to follow behind him. She was hesitant to follow him too far, and was hoping he would just stop running. "Hey, kid!" Dareen shouted after him, dropping all pretense.

She turned lazily from the shelf as the proprietor of the store approached her. She smiled though that would be hard to see through her lace veil. "Do you know what sort of books would interest a woman such as myself?" She inquired, knowing full well the poor man would likely not know the answer. The intoxicating psychic scent which had drawn her here filled the room and made her feel dizzy. Silly. Drunk.

The interaction was cut short when Jandar appeared. She watched him approach, something like guilt cutting through the giddiness that fizzed like champagne through her veins. She frowned and tilted her chin up toward Jandar. "Cousin," she responded and pulled her arms around herself. Her initial reaction was to reprimand Jandar but she caught herself. "He was only trying to be helpful. Poor soul," she spoke in the lazy drawl that she'd heard other Queens use to relay their boredom. The walls had ears. There was definitely someone else here. Her eyes strayed around the shop but could see nothing. Yet.

From his location, still sitting down and disguising himself as a beggar he had a decent view of what was happening at least in the store's front and the alleyway. He did notice how a young boy was spying Fatima, Jandar and Dareen. Mikhail was already expecting that they were being watched but since the situation at hand, with the dark power coming from inside the same bookstore that Fatima was, he couldn't afford to leave his position to chase a mere boy. Fortunately, after Jandar entered the store, Dareen noticed the boy and began following him soon as he ran away. Mikhail hoped she could take some answers from him if she caught the boy.

The other people were rightfully trying as best as they could to keep away from the bookstore. The feeling from having both an extremely dark jewel holder and a queen in the same place was so strong that it was like a beacon for anyone nearby to notice. Even if the strong psychic scent would probably keep most people away, it would most certainly attract the attention of powerful people, with jewels as dark as Mikhail or in the worst cases... Even the Queen herself...

As Jandar and Fatima headed deeper into the store, Mikhail lost track of them but unfortunately, he still couldn't leave his position. He knew too well that if something happened, the element of surprise against whoever was the one who had such dark jewel was the only thing that could give him an edge above his opponent and any chance to win.

If he could, Mikhail would love to enter the store and drag Fatima out before anything happened, but she had already put herself in quite a troublesome and delicate situation. It was already certain that whoever was the one that was emanating such a powerful dark power was already aware of Fatima's presence... Just as she was aware of his...

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Xandar had dozed off for the majority of the spell, resting a bit and letting his mind wander. However, he was still keeping aware of his surroundings, making sure the remaining viper rats weren’t slowly planning their demise. It had been a while since he had to protect people, since he had been living on his own for so long. But, even more different, he was trying to protect people who didn’t want to be protected. Trying to save people who didn’t want saving. It was a careful balance, and he had to realize that his comrades would have to learn from their own experiences and not have their hand held the whole way. Xandar yawned and shook his head, looking at the witch from behind his sight shield. “Yes, but it only takes one time, Widow. There are things out their far stronger than you, and even I, unfortunately. There’s no harm in the safety of numbers.” Xandar picked his head up, getting a sense of a number of people making their way towards them. They didn’t seem like anything terrifying, but there was a good amount of them. Who would be out here in a place like this? ‘Well, it seems we have company again. However, we should be expecting quite a few this time’

Faeril looked annoyed as the leathery membranes of her wings rustled as she dismissed his comment slightly. Oh, she knew it to be true. She just didn't want to admit it, especially to this arrogant warrior. Warlord Princes were notoriously hard to live with when they were right and you let them know you knew it. So it was with some thankful glee that she heard the people Xandar had been the first to notice. "Oh, wonderful. Why do you attract trouble like a light draws moths?" She complained on their shared mental link. Moving to a window as she peered down into the dusty street. It seemed there were about five tough-looking men. What startled her however was their lack of a Jewel. "Landens... Why would they come out here?" The non-Blood, or Landens, lacked the psychic powers of others of their race. Living a simpler life governed by the Blood for better or worse. In the recent years the relationship between the two groups had broken down in Terreille to nearly nonexistence. Pressing tightly into the shadows she listened as they quietly talked. Speaking of open rebellion against the Queen of Shalador. Their desperation peaking as it had before. Soon it would be followed by fields watered with their blood.

”I don’t know. Maybe you should ask yourself that, Miss Trouble.” Xanadar teased, loving to make his Black Widow companion flustered, trying to work his way into that cold, iron heart of hers. If there was a challenge, Warlord Princes loved to come up to the occasion. He moved the sight shield over the window so they would be hidden, looking at them. He summoned his bow, pulling the string back and ready to summon an arrow. ”Just give me the word and we can have five dead Landens on the side of the road.”

"Why are you so quick to kill everything?" Faeril snipped, pushing the bow down. "There are only five of them and Landens. They are hardly a threat!" She glowered at Xandar giving a mental grumble about how she did not find trouble, trouble just had a habit of happening.

”I don’t know, because we are Rogue for the most part and everything is trying to kill us? Call me paranoid, but most people we meet don’t just want to have tea.” Xandar sighed as he vanished his bow, crossing his arms. If they were spies for the Queen it would certainly not be wise to let them live, but as they are they are harmless. ”What do you suppose we do then? I don’t want them knowing we’re here in case they can’t keep their mouths shut.”

"They are speaking of rebellion." The Black Widow pointed out, patting the brute on the arm in a patronizing way. "Thus they can be useful. Don't worry you giant buffoon, you can kill everyone later and take all the plunder." She crooned mentally, looking smug.

”That’s a death sentence, even if they think they’re all alone. Either they have no sense, or they’re up to something. Xandar playfully shoved Faeril, seeing her smug looking face and wanting to wipe it right off of her. [color=crimson][i]”If you want to talk to them, be my guest. But if I sense a hint of malicious intent? They’re as good as dead.”[i][/color]

Blinking as she was shoved slightly, Faeril grew annoyed as he became protective. "You do not have to kill everyone who breathes wrongly in my direction." She huffed.

”I’m looking out for everyone, Faeril. Not just you. If you want to talk? Be my guest, you can surely handle yourself. I’ll just mind my own business then.” Xandar breathed out sharply, walking to the door and holding it open. ”Be my guest.”

The Black Widow stared at the man as he held the door open, her mouth a tight line as she narrowed her eyes. The landens below were convinced they were alone still. Oblivious to their watchers for better or worse. If the Landens were discussing a rebellion then they were indeed desperate and the Blood in Terreille were in far more danger than anyone cared to admit. Not only were they being torn apart by the Queens but by the people they tended. For while the Blood had the power of their Jewels, the Landens had numbers. No matter how strong a Queen and her Court there would be a vicious fight if the Landens uprising became widespread. It would be a uprising that saw no innocents. Sighing Faeril closed her wings and walked towards the door, laying a hand on Xandar's arm. A familiar touch. An attempt to comfort the Warlord Prince. "We cannot allow them to rebel. It will spread and innocents will die. You and I both know the danger the landens present." She whispered softly, passing by him and out the door.

The five landens were of the stock found by the mountain. Miners once, or perhaps loggers. One could very well hazard they had been forced out of their homes by Eyrien warriors and their increasing taxes. They were talking of rebellion indeed, but in an abstract way that hinted they had little support in the nearby settlement. A small comfort, but it was one best headed off. "That would be unwise, and you well know it." Faeril spoke carefully as she turned the corner, startling the group. Their clothes, she noted, were poor and mostly patches. Their weapons were their fists and what they might find laying about. A group of five against a witch of her caliber? They were no match. Yet if they did attack, would the Reaper seek their lives? Faeril rather hoped not. They were fools if they were so rash, and young fools at that. She doubted even one of them had seen the quarter of a century.

"Witch." Spat one with a beard, making a sign of some superstitious nonsense to ward off evil. "I tol' ye we ought to go somewhere we could set a guard." He snarked to another who hand hands that looked like he slung rocks for fun. The giant merely glowered at the intruding witch, as if it was her fault they couldn't see a mouse if they stepped on it! "Well what do we do?" Asked a third, a wiry fellow who looked as though he had consumed some sort of drug. He most likely had, Faeril reconsidered, his hands were twitching and there was a wild look in his eyes she didn't like. "We can't just l-let her leave. Tell t-the Queen B-bitch." The jittery one seemed quite certain of this, and the others seemed to be considering it as well.

"As wise as that may be. I'd advise against it." Faeril advised in an icy tone. "I am no friend to the Queen Bitch. Nor would she take kindly to you planning a half-thought rebellion that would only seen your sons in chains and your daughters broken in homes where they would need care all their days. Your wives and mothers put to the sword. Your farms and fields sown with ash and bones." Her pale blue eyes flashed with ice as she spread her wings. The landens cowering back in slight fear.

"No friend to the Queen? Then what stops us from claiming your lying about that and handing you over for some reward? Not wise to be slinging shit about." Sneered the bearded on who had spat at Faeril's appearance. "The fact you are only five." Growled Faeril. "And if it is 'shit' I speak then look to those of yours who are taken to the Queen even for 'reward'. How do they return?" This caused the group to shift uncomfortably answering Faeril's bluff. It appeared even a 'reward' was an edged sword with the current Queen. Yet as it was, they were at a stalemate. The landens were unsure if they could trust this Eyrien woman and the Eyrien woman was not likely to turn her back and depart the landens who might just speak to the Queen and risk that reward.

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The bookstore's keeper was quick to retreat as the Warlord snarled at him. It seemed this Lady was a bit eccentric, though Saetan with an amused twist to his lips as he scowled into the dusty air. He never did like the eccentric ones. They were sometimes decent in their own way, yet they were always the same as the others in the fact they wanted their own desires met with as little payment as was possible. Tapping his fingers on the wall softly, he watched the shopkeeper busy himself with his counter. Polishing it lest it offend the woman who was trespassing into this little haven Saetan had found. Straightening his suit, the man ran his hand through his dark hair giving it a touselled appearance. Well, if he was going to need to play cover to get the woman out of the bookstore and away from these people... So be it, but he wasn't going to like it. Turning the corner, her attached a seductive smile to his lips that didn't quite hide the predatory smile he felt was there. His eyes were colder than the deepest of winters as he walked down the row on soft feet. He would charm this woman off her feet and into a grave nobody would find. And he would like it. Turning the corner, he paused to lounge against the shelves. A rakish poise as he examined the cousins. The Warlord had the dark skin and hair of long-lived race, but there was something a little bit off that made the golden eyes narrow and Saetan's interest prick to a deadly point. There was something just off enough, he couldn't call this one Hyallian though the posture and the behavior was of those courts. The subtle spell that wove through the air was entangled in this man so subtly, Saetan was forced to admire the Craftsmanship of a caster who knew their work.

But the woman had knocked him off his feet.

The spell that wove about the man subtly wove about her in great chains of power. The Black Jeweled Warlord Prince was surprised that she didn't feel the weight of them. The sweet alluring scent of her though, it called to him and he found he didn't want to deny it. He! The most sought after man in all the Realms was staring at a hideous old crone who was no doubt a Queen. A Hyallian Queen. One of the ones he hated the most. The wood under his hand groaned and cracked. Splinters falling the floor as he stared at the two with a deadly glower. Narrowing his eyes he saw the flicker of illusion about the woman. Those heavy chains of spells seemed perhaps not so thick as he thought them.

"What a strange thing to find a flower of Hyall in this horrid place." The man purred in a voice that would make the smoothness of silk seem like the coarsest of sand. Moving forward with a predator's grace, he took one of Fatima's hands in his own. Needing to feel her, to smell her. To rip out her throat even as he wanted to wrap her in his power and carry her away from here and left her cousin to the motes of dust after he had burned the man inside out with wytchfire. Kissing the weathered skin, he smelt the scent of her and bared his teeth in a smile that was a snake's. "I cannot fathom never meeting a woman of your like before." He praised. Yes, he would find out where she had hidden away while working out the spells that would get rid of her little guard and expose what spell was bound about him. It set Saetan's teeth on edge to play this game, but he needed to know. "Perhaps you could dismiss the boy. I doubt he will be of much amusement." He could track down the bastard later and deal with him.

Meanwhile, Dareen would find herself led on a merry chase through the alley, only to find a brick wall. A small cap lay on the ground, dusty and well patched. A figure just leaping from the tall wall to the other side, their pale blonde hair bright in the dark of the alley. They had not slowed nor stopped during Dareen's shouts nor pursuit. It was hardly a wise thing to do when someone was shouting and you weren't exactly strong nor innocent of a crime.

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Jandar observed the darkest jeweled living person of all the Realms, very carefully observing his most minute expressions and actions. The Warlord’s breathing was mechanically slow and careful. The Warlord Prince, on the other hand, moved with ease and habitual grace. He was disgustingly smarmy, and Jandar couldn’t help but frown in distaste. Was this the man that he had admired and verbally defended for so long? Jandar truly hoped there was more to him than this...this superficial charm which barely concealed the thrum of danger underneath. Was it just the power that was misleading him or had SaDiablo truly appeared murderous? Was the Warlord Prince simply attempting to investigate an unknown Queen for Dorothea’s sake? However, if he was working for Dorothea, what in the Darkness’s name was he doing here?

Whatever SaDiablo’s motives, he couldn’t let him endanger Fatima. Jandar situated himself firmly at Fatima’s side, glaring up at the blatantly more powerful man. He did not address the other male’s poor flirtation game, though he dearly wanted to - for Mother Night’s sake, Fatima was currently under the guise of an ugly hag, who in their sane minds would believe the words SaDiablo was spouting?! However, he had a more pressing matter to discuss. “I will not be dismissed,” he stated, his feet firmly planted where he stood, shoulders squared and spine almost painfully straight. “And we are certainly not here to cater to your amusement,” Jandar hissed in offence, baring his teeth in a scowl.

Fatima was understandably dazed as the man manifested from the black and took her hand. She stared up at him through the veil as she shuddered. Sweet death. A night's last kiss brushed the back of her neck. He was perdition wrapped in honey. Predator barely contained beneath a sheep's soft wool.

Jandar's words brought her out of the stupidity she had found herself dwelling. She pursed her lips with a wry smile and responded, "Does it shock you all the much to have not seen this withered flower, left with no water beneath the shade of bushes? A well hidden, ugly thing that would make a wee babe cry? No, you will not have seen me… and believe that you still do not see." She withdrew her hand from his grasp with the realization that he was hers.

But she did not want such a dangerous beast.

The deadly man smiled a thing of seductive malice, his eyes glancing towards Jandar before turning back to the withered Queen. ”I see more than you would suspect.” Saetan hissed softly, ”Like those spells you have used to bind your cousin to you. Those spells that are curled about you in a Craft that should have never been twisted to Dorothea’s ambition.” Moving with an easy step, the taller man put himself between the pair and their exit. ”You play a dangerous game, Lady, and one that has been attempted before.” The malice in the room was palpable. If there was one thing that Saetan hated most of all it was a Black Widow spinning her spells over him as though he was so vulnerable to their Craft! ”Lady Laska was not expecting any visitors… Perhaps that would be all the better that she receives none? Unless you’d rather give my questions answers.” It was not the Black, but the birthright Red that leaned on Fatima. Pressing against the illusion and threatening to shatter it.

“She didn’t bind me, you dolt,” Jandar growled at the implication, bristling. Was that how the Warlord Prince perceived their natural connection, as some artificially created binding thing? If so, he was making quite the assumption. The Warlord narrowed his eyes as SaDiablo uttered the phrase ‘twisted to Dorothea’s ambition’. He wasn’t entirely clear what Craft he was referring to, though he could make a guess or two. “If you are truly against things being in Dorothea’s favour, than what are you doing serving her interests?” Jandar hissed lowly, a clear undertone of contempt to his words. Since they were clearly already in danger, especially with how the Warlord Prince had blocked their exit, there was nothing to it but direct confrontation. “You are the only one playing games here, Prince,” he accused in a murmur.

She could feel Jandar bristling, was certain that one wrong move would result in his death. She was afraid. The intoxicating man had them pinned and she was not strong enough to push him out. The violent caress of his Red against her visual protections made her stiffen. She pushed lightly back, not in threat or warning but imploring. Asking. Don’t do this.

Fatima took Jandar’s hand in her own as she stepped slightly forward but also in front of him. The back of her heel now rested at the front of his foot, beside the toe of his shoe. She held his hand tightly behind her back. If this came down to it, she was not about to let this man hurt Jandar. She would not allow him to mistake any of his movements as a threat.

Smiling politely, attempting to calm the rapid beats of her heart, she said “I do not know how to play many games. They are group activities and no one likes to be reminded of what is ugly in this world. But, I will answer whatever questions I can. A girl likes to keep some secrets you know.” Her tone was playful but she knew the quiver of her fear peppered the notes of it.

He wanted to hate this woman, to not find her amusing as she smiled at his ire. As she shoved back against his the power of his birthright. Snarling softly at Jandar, the room dipped into an icy chill. Even Mikhail outside would feel the bitter bite of a Warlord Prince’s temper. “Oh, I serve her interests do I? She would find that so delightful. That I was actually compliant for once!” Yet, even as he wanted to push the little ugly witchling aside and throttle the Warlord who challenged him, Saetan held himself back. Too desperate to unravel the puzzle that was this alluring spell and scent that wrapped about this woman. Moving forward, he drew slowly close to Fatima til he was but a breath away. ”Why don’t you retire for the time?” It was a question but not directed towards the Hyallians. The shopkeeper needed no urging as he slipped through the back. Wisely leaving his shop to the mercy of the Black Jeweled Warlord Prince. “Now that we don’t have any visitors…” He tilted Fatima’s head up with a finger. His voice becoming soft and seductive. “Why has a Hyallian Queen come to Shalador?” He whispered, using the little Queen as a buffer against Jandar. The Warlord was pricking his temper even as the Queen did with avoiding his questions. It would kill Saetan but he was a bit miffed she wasn’t fawning over him. Perhaps his time at Dorothea’s court had made him conceited.

Jandar blinked as Fatima took his hand in hers and frowned when she stepped in front of him, shielding him from the pissed of Warlord Prince. Really, he should be protecting her, not the other way around. Yet, he couldn’t help but acknowledge that he was still unharmed mostly due to SaDiablo’s interest in Fatima rather than any inherent tolerance on the other male’s part. Sensing the sharp, temperamental spark of the Warlord Prince’s power, Jandar paled, teeth clenching against a shiver that was attempting to set in. His fear did not cause him to miss the man’s words and tone, however, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. SaDiablo had openly expressed contempt at the idea that he would willingly work for Dorothea. That could only mean whatever he did was unwilling. And yet, Fatima had called him a beast and a queen killer when Jandar had asked her after him the day they’d met. Even now, the Warlord Prince was acting in a frankly disturbing predatory manner towards Fatima.

Jandar stared at SaDiablo, who’d moved to stand directly in front of his Lady, who, in turn, was standing directly in front of him. It was beyond awkward, in more ways than one. One of Jandar’s palms was still held within the Fatima’s, and he shifted the grip, so he held her more firmly across the whole forearm. Very slowly and very carefully, he raised his other arm into the air, palm facing outwards in the general sign of ‘wait, please’. He remained observing SaDiablo. Now that he was so close, Jandar recognized what had before seemed no more than an odd glint as a band of compliance. His cheek muscles twitched in realization, whole body tensing even further. A collar like that was used only on the worst of criminals, and yet, if someone like Dorothea had put it on someone like Saetan SaDiablo...It was beyond suspicious, but did not make matters any clearer.

“Perhaps we should exchange information indeed,” he hissed, and lay the palm of his free arm that he’d raised on Fatima’s shoulder protectively. He was now securely holding onto her arm with both of his, and if it came to it, he could at least attempt to twist her out of the way of the other male. Such a precaution may ultimately be not needed (or what would be worse, turn out useless), but Jandar figured it was better than nothing. “Our motives and goals in exchange for yours, perhaps,” he suggested, laying a thin veil of politeness over his outrage. Though whether he should be outraged at Dorothea, SaDiablo, or both, he himself did not know yet.

He had to cut right to the quick of things didn’t he? Asking for information she was not ready to divulge. She sighed softly as Jandar’s hand migrated up her arm. The Queen Killer was getting far too close for her liking and she had positioned herself in such a way that she could not easily escape from him. Trapped by her desire to protect one of her own. She twisted as the second hand rested on her shoulder, turning slightly into Jandar. Glancing up at him just to gauge his feeling on things, as if his tone of voice did not speak volumes, she swept back the veil to reveal the beautifully ugly face Faeril had created for her.

She turned her unhidden features toward the man. She watched to see if he recoiled. She wanted him to step back as if she were burning flame. Nothing could keep their countenance around so ugly a wench, right? Fatima flashed him one of her dazzling crooked smiles, something it seemed the charm over her could not hide, and said, “I honestly don’t know why we are here.” She hadn’t been paying attention when they had been speaking earlier. Just that they were going into town and she did not want to be left behind AGAIN. “Something called and I followed.” This was also true. “I needed to be here and so… here I am. I think it had something to do with getting supplies maybe?” She twirled some frizzy hair in her fingers as she looked back toward Jandar. Oh boy was she going to get it later. That is… if they lived.

Having spent the majority of these later years around people who were far more ugly than this queen, Saetan didn’t flinch back as Fatima revealed her hideous face. The personalities of the queens he was forced to amuse were far worse than any physical deformity. His lips, however, twitched as he studied the queen. ”So you followed so naively into a town on a feeling for supplies.” He stated slowly, his golden eyes narrowing and losing a great deal of their chill. ”How curious that a visiting queen would need supplies.” Moving his gaze to Jandar he frowned slightly. ”I will remain quiet as to your being here, so long as you do not bring trouble to the people of this town.” There was no room for argument in his voice.

Jandar quirked a brow, who’d suddenly seemed to lose a great deal of aggressiveness. Was it a ploy? Or a genuine reaction to Fatima? The Warlord burned with curiosity as his gaze drilled into the powerful male. He tugged Fatima to the side and back gently, wishing to remove her from between SaDiablo and himself. “Trouble?” Jandar questioned, slowly and carefully rolling the word on his tongue as if tasting something of dubious quality. He chuckled, and it was a bitter, sardonic expression devoid of any mirth.

“I do wonder what you would find troubling if not the already existent state of oppression and fear-mongering,” he continued mockingly, his smile a decidedly ugly, jagged thing. “Oh, but I am sure your protection is more than adequate, keeping it all under control,” his tone was dripping sarcasm, and at his last word, Jandar’s gaze pointedly fell to SaDiablo’s band of compliance. “No matter, no matter,” he sighed, obviously facetious in his sudden pleasant nonchalance. “We shall not escalate the situation,” he stated truthfully, but couldn’t help adding one last dig: “You can keep your peace and stability.” He inclined his head politely, though his expression was nothing if not derisive. Jandar was acutely aware on a distant, rational level that now that the Warlord Prince’s ire had cooled, he should absolutely not be still provoking SaDiablo, but seeing this man that he had once so admired - and of whom he still had the highest expectations - reduced to such a pathetic, pitiful position was infuriating. And it was this fury that overwhelmed his better senses and drove him to lash out instead of hold his tongue.

Fatima looked at Jandar in disbelief as she was tugged back from between the two men. He seemed to be egging the man on, trying to start a fight. Now was most certainly not the time. Fatima lifted her foot and brought her heel down, pressing onto Jandar's toes. She doubted her weight would cause the man any harm but she did hope to remind him of their perilous situation. "I think what my companion means to say is that we desire to bring no trouble to this place. Just to get what we need and get out. If anything it might be a help to infuse some coin into the economy here… though it may be short lived among the people." As she spoke, upon coming to the end of her sentence she could not keep the bitter sadness at the state of this world from her tone.

In a desperate hope to be more distracting and to bring attention away from Jandar, she moved away from the two men and toward the bookshelves. Her eyes lit over the tomes and dust as she brushed a gnarled hand over the spine of one of the novels. "I have shared a bit of information with you. May I ask, what brings the Queen's Dog out to sniff about some old bound papers? Surely there are much finer items to be had than these."

Saetan’s gaze became flinty again as he fixed it on Jandar, Fatima’s intervention saving the man from a taste of what the Black Jeweled Warlord Prince could do. As the Queen went about to look at the books, the room thawed slightly. ”Get what you need and get out…” Repeated the Warlord Prince with interest as he gave Jandar a warning look as he considered snapping the fool’s neck. Bristling under the insult of being called the Queen’s Dog the man glared at Fatima. ”A queen wrapped in illusions.” He answered coldly.

His attention turning to Jandar. ”You sound like you quite hate the Queens and their ways. Yet you prance about them just as I do.” Using the fact that Fatima was out of the way, Saetan struck. His power lashing out as he slammed the younger man into the wall behind them. ”And I think I have had enough of your games.” It would be a risk to himself, let alone the shop, as Laska would surely sense the use of his power in more than he was permitted to do. Still, Jandar had pushed him too far. Ripping away the spell that bound about the two, he smirked slightly. ”Your Black Widow is skilled, Queen. But her power is no match for the Black. Especially when she did nothing to safeguard it.”

Jandar yelped as Fatima stepped on him, head whipping to stare at her incredulously. However, he swiftly realized how very inappropriate his own words and attitude had been. He inclined his head to his Lady, grateful for the intervention. “I am around this one Queen only, and she is not a part of-” he began to answer, now definitely calmer, and genuinely cooly polite. However, before he could finish his vague statement, the Warlord Prince threw him into the wall across the room. Jandar had the time to consider that his power truly was dense, then his whole body met the wall - forcefully. The Warlord grunted, air wheezing out of him, a burning pain engulfing his back. At least his neck hadn’t snapped, and he had not fallen unconscious, though he was dizzy.

Jandar blinked his eyes open, not knowing when he’d closed them. “A-apologies,” he gasped out, still out of breath. “I deserved that,” he inhaled bracingly. “At the very least.” He stepped away from the wall carefully, assessing the damage caused to his body. He was trembling, but he could stand. “Forgive me…” the words once again fell still upon his lips as he registered SaDiablo’s intent, and his gaze snapped to the scene unfolding before him.

“Wait!” he couldn’t help but shout, but of course, it did not prevent anything. The Warlord Prince ripped apart Faeril’s illusion, destroying it, and revealing the beauty underneath the hag image she’d taken upon. Jandar stumbled forward, paler than ever, mind whirring. Fatima could not go outside like this, she’d draw even more attention. And what would SaDiablo do, now? He’d only discovered more mysteries that would surely pique his curiosity. Horrified, he slowly shambled closer, his flaring pain shoved to a corner of his mind. “Prince, please,” his voice was rough, imploring. “Don’t hurt her,” he begged.

She whipped around as Jandar was flung against the wall. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes and she swallowed heavily. Fatima gazed at the monster, her fear churning her insides to mush. The illusions fell away and the ugly farce she had been playing melted away leaving her naked - in a sense - before the man.

She lifted a hand to Jandar as he edged closer and made a motion bidding him to stop. "You've won but surely you knew that would happen upon the start of this encounter. You've used your brute strength to hurt those weaker than yourself." She gestured to herself and Jandar. "Congratulations. I'm so happy for you." Her words and face were stony cold. "A big man indeed." She stepped away from the bookshelf and forced herself to walk confidently toward him. Every fiber of her being screamed that she should run, get away, don't go into the drooling jaws of the wolf. But she went.

"It may mean little to you, and of course I would have no way to keep you to your word. However, all I can ask is that you let my man go peacefully and the shopkeep live. Especially him, he has no part in this. In return I will give you everything I have. My money, my possessions, my life. I will go peacefully. You can keep me as a pet, feed me to the Queens. Whatever you like. But leave these men be." She clasped her hands together beneath her breasts and gave him her bravest, Queenly face. She did not feel brave though. She was facing a childhood nightmare, the monster who lived under her bed, the boogey man who would eat little girls who didn't behave. Well, perhaps this was the way it should be, all the misbehaving she'd done in her life. That thought made her want to laugh as she was sure she would be facing her death.

Jandar stuttered to a stop at Fatima’s gesture, petrified with disbelief at her words. “No, not her,” he rasped. “Whatever you are doing with the other Queens, leave this one alone,” he clenched his teeth, staring at the Warlord Prince. Now that Fatima had offered herself to SaDiablo, how could he possibly convince him not to take her offer? Quite simply, he couldn’t.

Saetan stared in startled shock at Fatima as the illusion was torn away to reveal the woman beneath. A woman who was startling beautiful. A woman who was berating him for attacking the offending fool who had insulted him one too many times. Yet even as she stood before him offering herself for the exchange of the shopkeeper and her man, he could sense her fear. Saetan had spent thousands of years reading people. But it was he who was terrified. Now as Fatima stood before him without any illusion to shelter her, Saetan began to piece together the puzzle of this mysterious Queen. Of how the man had claimed she was not like the others. How he now pleaded for him to let her go.

Covering his mouth with a shaking hand, he grimaced at the obvious weakness. He wanted this Queen in ways he had not wanted another before. He wanted to serve her. To protect her from the wickedness in the world. Hell’s fire, he wanted this to be part of the spell. A clever ploy by some Queen’s Black Widow, but it was no such thing. He spoke softly then. Unsure if he was asking for forgiveness for his actions or defending himself form an image he never asked for. ”And do what to the shopkeep? If you haven’t noticed, Lady, I was here first looking for a book. I wished to keep you away from the shopkeeper lest you decide to amuse yourself with him as Hyallian Queens are wont to do.” Bristling the man turned away and slammed his fist into a nearby shelf. The wood splintering and sticking in his skin as he pulled his hand away, rubbing the sore knuckles. How in the name of Hell was he supposed to deal with this?! With a Queen he was bound to in his heart being a Hyallian bitch? And if she really was different… How could he be sure? Hunching his shoulders slightly, Saetan snarled in a few languages some selective words that were not fit for polite company. ”And I would not ‘feed you to the Queens’. I do not dance to their pleasure more than I must for that bitch’s knife-point bargain. Even then I make sure they dance to my tune.”

She frowned. He wasn't going to hurt the shopkeep? "I just assumed… as you assumed." She winced when he punched the bookshelf. "I'm sorry. Will you take my offer then? Let my man go?" She was hesitant, unsure. There was an air of confusion here she could not dispel. "If I do as you ask?" She paused looking toward the ground. "Will you kill me?" She whispered.

”Just go. I am not a thoughtless monster as you may think.” Snarled the Warlord Prince, stalking towards the door. Stiff with pain as Laska sent her power coursing through the band at his throat. A call for him to return and a promise of punishment for using his Jewels. A slave, after all, could not use a jewel.

"I… wait!" Just go? She hurried after him, placing a hand on his arm before she recoiled as if she'd touched hot metal. She hadn't meant to touch and to feel him beneath her hand had thrown her heart into wild disarray. After a moment of shock she said, "You've taken my disguise from me. If you do not kill me here I will die out there."

”And you will die if I stay.” Saetan growled in annoyance, even as his heart hammered from her touch and he desired more than that brief caress. ”Laska is calling me back you foolish girl. Ignoring it, ignoring her. You aren’t worth the pain that brings.”

She took steps backwards, away from him. He was a beast, just as she'd always been told. She turned from him and instead went to Jandar. "Are you alright? Can you walk if I support you?" She touched his arm and looked up into his face, worried. She should find the shopkeep, perhaps if she paid him well he could direct them out of the town discreetly.

Saetan stumbled to the door, cursing as he paused. ”Wait till night. The guards will be drunk and… entertained by then.” With that Saetan stumbled out the door and down the alley, forcing himself to walk as if nothing was wrong. As if nothing was strangling him.

“I can walk on my own, I should think,” Jandar answered Fatima distractedly. He’d been watching her conversation with SaDiablo and was still deep in thought. “If we can get him to trust us,” he murmured, considering. “If we remove his band of compliance, as debilitating as it would be…” he trailed off, not sure if he should have suggested doing so knowing the pain it would bring. However, there would also be significant benefits to the action, and he could not ignore them. “He would no longer be forced to serve those undeserving. He is not an enemy,” he stated, entirely confident in his assertion that the Warlord Prince they’d met was not at all what he’d first appeared to be. The man was playing a role, and he’d revealed much to them. There was hope. First, though, they had to make it safely out of here. “We should go back to the camp,” he said, tone brooking no argument.

The psychic scents in the air were still a clear indication to anyone who was sane enough that it wasn't a good idea to get closer. Without a clear line of sight nor any way to know what was happening inside, Mikhail was still curled in the corner with the same disguise. Still, the silence and the fact that he was completely in the dark regarding what was happening inside was bothering him, still, he knew that he shouldn't act hastily. From the few words he was able to hear and the lack of commotion, they were probably talking and the situation didn't turn into a bloodbath... yet.

It was then that Mikhail felt a frightening power in the air, coming from inside the bookstore. It was almost as if the air itself shook, accompanied shortly by a loud sound of something being thrown on the wall and a surge of power. Knowing that something happened, Mikhail immediately activated his sight shield as he got up in a jump and dashed inside the store. Getting inside, he erased his presence as much as he could as he used his craft wires around the room, spreading them in a deadly trap almost as a spider weaves it's webs. Strangely enough, when he was about to act, the situation defused itself as suddenly as it became. That said, it didn't end with both sides unscathed... Jandar had sustained some wounds thanks to the black jeweled man's power but other than that, Fatima was still fine.

As the mysterious black jeweled man left, Fatima went to check on his wounds. Taking this moment to remove his wires, Mikhail showed himself the second he heard Jandar saying that the man wasn't an enemy.

"He is an enemy until proved otherwise. He could have killed you both. Before putting yourselves in such situation again, be prepared for what could happen. I can't have the luxury of just 'threatening' him if something like this happens again. If I need to act, someone will die..." Mikhail said, with piercing words and an equally piercing stare to both Fatima and Jandar.

"Luckily, it won't be me..." Mikhail said in a lower tone.

"I will follow your lead." Mikhail finished, confirming he would follow their plans as he got out of the bookstore again.

Dareen had almost lost the kid. He must have caught onto them. He had dropped his hat on the and ground and was scaling a wall. She just caught a glimpse of his nearly white hair vanishing over the side. She could pursue him...but she didn't want to get farther from the others than she already was. Plus, he probably knew these alleys like the back of his hand. She knew she did, back in her youth. Dareen picked up the hat, dusted it off, and then tossed it over the wall behind the kid so he could pick it up, guiding it over with the craft and then letting it fall. Have your damn hat.

"Fuck it," she swore, smacking the frills of her dress. The powerful jeweled felt like it was droning on in her ear. Dareen was flustered and frustrated and like a true noblewoman she indignantly stomped back to the outside of the bookstore. Shoving past people she stood outside and crossed her arms, wiping the sweat off her brow. She wasn't going to go on a fucking goose chase all across town while this prick with the jewel, whoever they were, kept scaring her. All while she was in the fucking dress- she looked like an idiot. Ooh, it's me, the nobleman's wife, la de fucking da. Unbeknownst to her, Mikhail was already in side and the encounter had already ended. Dareen hadn't felt so out of control of her life in a really long time and it had ground on her nerves. Stuffy dress, stuffy alleyway, and she couldn't even escape into her own thoughts because of this jewel that made her feel insignificant and worried.

Dareen inhaled and stood up straight, recovering her persona. Ranina. Ra-neee-na. She crossed her hands across her and put on a neutral, apathetic face. Like nothing had happened. Even though her dress had already been dirtied up by this alleyway and the running she had been doing. To outsiders she probably appeared like a spoiled aristocrat on the verge of losing her patience.