Arc I - Terreille in Trouble
Months Earlier
Location: Ashkevron Residence in Aren, Askavi
Location: Ashkevron Residence in Aren, Askavi
Slim fingers wove the spider silk about the wooden frame used by the Black Widows of the Hourglass. Ruby drops of blood slipping along the strands as the hands moved absently, unaware of the damage that was being done. The Black Widow that sat before the tangled web that was being woven had a vacant look in her icy blue eyes. Her gaze far off in the strands of the web, and the strands of time itself. Faeril Ashkevron had felt the call to weave like she never had before and the Eyrien heeded it.
Far off, yet so near, the blue eyed woman watched a map of the Realm of Terreille splay out before her like a great tapestry. However, there was a wrongness to it. The blood red that slowly seeped off of Dhemlan, the Territory to the south of Askavi, was thick and the Healer within Faeril could feel the draw to go. To heal the wounded and ill. But this was not such a place as she could do so. Here she was an observer. To see what the twisted kingdom that laid dormant in the dreams of the Blood showed her. Looking to the east of Dhemlan, the woman brushed her hand across the territory of Hyall and recoiled at the sickening feel and the sight of the tapestry rotting away slowly where she had touched. Smaller points of rot began in Pruul and Raej as well, though they were not so quick. With horror, the Widow watched as the map slowly rotted away. Revealing the Shadow Realm of Kaeleer beneath it. The rot slowly infesting the second of the living realms. But there was another darkness here as well, one that shielded the land from the destruction of Terreille and it was black as night.
Tearing herself away from the vision, the Healer and Widow gave a cry as she collapsed at her work table. Her eyes staring blankly at her bleeding hands as a thundering came from the stairs that led up to the rest of the eyrie and her ancestral home. The home of Ashkevron Black Widows in general, as it had been passed from mother to daughter, or teacher to student, but always within the blood of her kin. ”Ashke! Ashke-! Oh, Mother Night.” The Eyrien woman felt her hands being yanked away as another examined them, her gaze still fastened on the triangle that had shielded and slowed the rot within her vison.
”Destroy it.” Gennar 'Gen' Saroth, the escort to Healer Faeril Ashkevron and the guard of Black Widow Faeril Ashkevron, looked up sharply into the icy eyes of his long time friend. Her hands were lacerated with scraps and lines where the spider silk had cut through flesh due to the tightness of her grip. It wouldn’t take much to heal them, aside from Ashke taking it easy for a few days which was another problem within itself. ”Destroy the web, Gen.” The voice that normally barked sharp commands and snapped far quicker than any lash, was shaking and soft. A plea. It scared the Hell out of Gen. Faeril never spoke softly unless it was deadly serious. Nodding his square jaw, the Warlord left her hands to lie while he reached for the web. The threads no use to another as they were tangled and the reek of Faeril’s psychic power stemmed from it like she had set it ablaze by power alone.
Which, she probably did. Faeril over did things from time to time for better or worse. But more often for the betterment of others, nevermind herself. It was part of being a Healer. To think yourself expendable while you really were no such thing. But Gen crushed the wooden frame and the web in his massive hands before letting the ruined mess fall into the brazier Faeril kept in her workroom for just that reason and to provide a little heat to the cool underground. He could never understand why she would enjoy it down here, so far from the sky, but the need for secrecy was great these days. Black Widows were being hunted down for being ‘unnatural’ and ‘dangerous’.
Opening his mouth to ask what she had seen, Gen didn’t get the chance as the oldest of those Black Widows in Terreille that remained faithful to the Hourglass Coven spoke. ”The poison that we have watch twist the Blood from the proper ways of Protocol is spreading far wider and faster than I had thought possible.” Faeril’s eyes were distant but this time the Ice Healer was deep in thought. Considering the vision she had witnessed. For such things were tricky and all too often misinterpreted wrongly. The Black Widow seeing what she wanted instead of what was shown. Perhaps that and their reputation for dealing in poisons and underhand schemes is what really caused the decline of her sisters and not just the bribes and temptations of the twisted Queens that now were slowly gaining power? As a mug was shoved into her hands, the woman flinched at the pain. Listening to Gen putter about her workroom. He was hardly the first allowed down here, but he was the only one she allowed down in this hidden space. Friends for all her long years, they had enjoyed a fast partnership that was more akin to cousins. Save for the whole friends with benefits things they had done for a time, but even that had been for her sake. A outlet to keep her from stressing, a possibility for a child to further her line. Sipping at the brew, Faeril gave her ‘friend’ a sharp look. ”Calming brew? Really? As if I need such a thing!”
Gen’s chuckle was a deep and reassuring thing as he looked over at the woman he considered family. ”Well your snapping again, so I’m doing something right.” His cheeky grin was contagious to many but Faeril was immune as she shook her head of black hair typical of their race.
”Hmph. Gen, I must go to Helios. I will need aid to find and forge the shield that will stop the rot of Dorothea from spreading. Perhaps then we shall find time to find ourselves the sword to cut the rot out completely.” Standing the woman made it all of three steps before she found herself over a muscular shoulder. A snarl ripping from her throat as the cheap pottery cup shattered on the flagstones below. ”I can walk up a flight of damn stairs!” The infamous Faeril temper blooming as she spat a few curses against Gen’s back. His wing draping over her head and muffling her cries much to her annoyance.
Gen nodded sagely as he hauled the woman to the thick door at the base of the stairs, then up said stairway. Faeril in this state wouldn’t have made it to the first step and they both knew it. He had seen the jewel she was wearing was not her jewel of rank, the Red, but her birthright Blood-Opal. A darker version of the Opal gem and the same as he had when he was first presented at the altar. ”And tell them what? That you’re a Widow with some vision of darkness and rot that stems from one of the most influential people in the realm? Not to mention you’d be doing so while wearing your birthright.” The muffled protest was ignored. For nearly a thousand years the two had watched the Courts about the realm of Terreille fall into disarray as Queens who cared more for their gowns, riches and own pleasure took control. They had watched the rivals to these queens disappear or die off. The Black Widows doing much the same unless they aided the twisted Queens who made little to no effort to care for the land they were attached to. Gen’s golden eyes turned sorrowful as he thought of the parched and dry feel of Hyall. He had only been there once, long ago and that had been to collect a debt owed to himself, his brothers and Faeril. A debt owed by his own father, who had paid the price. For while there was no law against murder for the Blood, they was generally always a price.
Setting Faeril down on the large bed that made up her private quarters, and not the rooms she used for her clients, Gen brushed away the straight black hair. A few waves in the inky depths that hinted at her blood not being wholly Eyrien, as if the eyes were not clue enough! The Ashkevron eyes- that stunning, icy blue. They had been a trademark in the family for generations, at least one child of the next generation being born with them. Perhaps it was from the sheer love that it had taken to marry outside of the race all those eons ago? Gen was a romantic, but his taste was for another warrior and to dance on and off the killing field with them. Shaking his head at Faeril the Warlord chuckled slightly at the mulish set of her mouth as he wrapped her hands. After a time, he felt the woman relent her anger, or rather, her irritability at him. ”I shall rest and recover my strength and then we shall pack and go. There is not time to be lost!” The Black Widow declared, making Gen only smile sweetly.
”Shall I get my brothers to help with the packing while you rest til your hands are healed?” The following curse from the Healer, was met with a male roar of laughter.
Elsewhere in Draega Capital of Hayll in the Present Day
Location - Dorothea's Gardens, Draega, Capital of Hayll
Location - Dorothea's Gardens, Draega, Capital of Hayll
Draega was a city of towering stone buildings that shadowed the cobbled streets below. Theaters, music halls, eateries that offered all sorts of food and the many galleries of artists. Not to mention more… salacious halls for those who liked that sort of entertainment that the Queen of Hayll, Dorothea, cared to enjoy as well. The tight city had parks- what city didn’t?- but they were filled with grass that had lost the sheen of good health and trees that were stunted and sickly. Oh it was all glorious to those who willed their long lives with too many hours and pleasure at their fingertips, but Saetan SaDiablo could feel the illness that infected the Territory of Hayll, the place he was born over two thousand years ago.
Once the Queens have given back to the land, and the land had returned with bounty and life. Now Dorothea had risen to take what she desired and gave nothing but the broken husks of life back. The land returning the favor quid pro quo. Staring absently from his seat on the patio of one of the gardens that surrounded the great building that was by all accounts more than a mere ‘manor’. It rivaled SaDiablo Hall in size, though the taste was horrendous according to more than a few standards. This particular garden sported a series of pillars and weaving paths between them, but the true treat or ‘show’ was the man who was being untied from one pillar and led away. For some reason or another, a actual or perceived slight, Dorothea had seen fit to turn the man into entertainment for the day. One that he had been forced to watch with a few other key political ‘guests’ who were now pale and trying desperately to avoid giving any reason to be the next one she invited to perform.
Saetan tapped his long tinted black nails on the arm of his chair absently, giving cold smiles to the women that fluttered their eyes at him as they crooned to Dorothea about the latest gossip. Servants who barely hid shaking hands and nervous glances moved about the group offering refreshment and choice pieces to the Ladies first before the guest and then finally him. The official Prisoner of War. He had been tricked into a peace talk that had pulled him away from defending Terreille Dhemlan leaving the territory open for attack from Pruul and Raej. The queens of those territories greedy for a piece of sweeter riches than what they were getting from their salt mines and other resources. Eager at the promise of labor where kindness was optional. Both lands were harsh and while the resources were well needed and desired bringing in a fair amount of trade, why pay for labor? This thought had been urged by Dorothea. That woman who had started the entire mess by crossing the lines of Protocol, the Code that guided the Blood, to begin with! The black nails scraped against the wood of the chair threatening to shatter it as old rage boiled with the Black Jeweled Warlord Prince’s veins.
He could kill them all right here. Just by unleashing the Black and wytchfire he could burn them out of existence! A jolt of agony, however, shocked him from his thoughts of revenge. Drawing in a sharp breathe, Saetan leveled a golden glare at Dorothea who looked at him with a smug expression. Her fingers playing with the damned ring the controlled the band of compliance. It wasn't bad enough the thing was degrading, but that it would send whatever degree of pain Dorothea saw fit made him want to strangle her. If he could fight past the amount of pain the woman could, and would, level at him if he even tried to attempt it. If… If he hadn’t gone to that meeting at Felisin's, a neutral party or so he thought, request. If he hadn’t agreed to take food or drink at that ‘peace’ meeting. If he had prepared Dhemlan for such an ambush as those two snakes set against the territory he defended. ”Saetan, darling!” Dorothea’s voice had enough false sweetness in it and real desire to curdle milk beyond its years. Saetan wanted to throw the wine his nursed in one hand in her overly elaborate face. ”We were just discussing the upcoming ball tonight, and my dear Alanya is in need of an escort! We hope you would be so kind as to see that she has a splendid time.”
Saetan’s golden orbs flickered over to the slightly pale woman who looked at him like a rabid dog at a piece of meat. A likeness that was not far off the mark. Giving a charming smiled as frost lightly coated the glass he was holding, Saetan ignored the shivers of those about him. His anger making the air grow cold. ”It would be a pleasure to see her to the ball, but surely you need your own escort, Oh tyrant?” He nearly doubled over by the jolt of pain and in laughter that he held back while Dorothea sent a poisonous glare at him. The mocking comments, the underhanded funding of rebels, the slaughter of her pet Queens. He was waging his own war against the twisted woman, but it wasn’t enough. Terreille was falling into her hands as it had been for centuries. Dorothea’s pet Queens were taking over bit by bit and as much as he tried, Saetan could only slow the tide of rot.
”I believe I will enjoy Prince Darrel’s company, tonight.” A sickening smile from those overly red lips at the pale Warlord Prince of Challiot. His psychic scent reeking of fear at what he had witnessed. Challiot was the latest territory to fall to Dorothea’s little game leaving only Dene Nehele free and slowly falling. Several rogue camps of males also plagued her across the Realm. Camps that she tried to send Saetan to ‘wipe out’. The Black Jeweled Warlord Prince instead suffering punishments as he made the plans loudly and widely known so the rogue males could relocate. Saetan’s lips thinned on his handsome profile. It seemed he had little to no choice then but to play the escort. Though the man would admit he was curious as to how this ‘Alanya’ would try to seduce him. They always did after all. Eager to get a child of the Black Jewel. Something which Saetan did not permit to happen. Ever. If Dorothea got a child of his, he would never see the babe and it would be raised merely to another shackle or another tool under the twisted Priestess-Queen. Neither of which the Warlord Prince wanted for his offspring.
”Then I have the utter delight to join you this evening.” Rising from the dark chair, the man did not wait for a dismissal nor bow. Instead he braced himself against the pain that shot through him as the band of compliance burned in agony. Gritting his teeth he walked away from the gathering. Enduring each step of torture as he made his way to his room. His sanctuary and hoping it had not been violated in his absence as it had so many times before. Saetan doubted he would be able to stop himself from leaving the guilty woman who had done so as a visible message for the others. It would not be the first time he had done so, nor would it be the first time he had born the punishments that Dorothea heaped upon him. The only good coming from that would be the banishment from court. For while Dorothea loathed and fought to keep control over the Black Jeweled Warlord Prince, she did not dare kill him. The Hundred Families of Hyall, the aristo class or nobles, were failing in their dark bloodlines. Few offsprings wearing dark jewels and most far too light and weak in their psychic power. Dorothea needed Saetan, the only male to wear the Black. She needed him as a symbol and as a potential father to powerful children. The latter of which Saetan would not give her. He had fought for over a thousand years, and the man would fight til he became a Whisper in the Darkness to make sure that the bitch didn’t get what she desired.
Faeril's hands withdrew from the pale skin of her Dea Al Mon patient, her cold eyes calm though they hid the disgust and the horror at what she had seen within her patient's mind. It wasn't what he had done, though goodness knows the Prince had his own ghosts, but rather what a member of the Hourglass had done or hadn't done. It was sheer incompetence, and it took years of practice to keep the desire to hunt down the misled 'Sister' and set the woman straight. A member of the Blood, desperate and suffering, had come to her doorstep guided by Denvar when the Eyrien had found that the Dea Al Mon was searching for a Black Widow of some skill. Of course, he hadn't wanted to bring the potential threat into her home and thus risk her. But even as one of the most stubborn caste of males, a Warlord Prince, Denvar well knew it wasn't worth his hide if his honorary sister found out he had left this fellow hurting and floundering.
"The basic 'stitches', as you could call them, are in place. Though it will require a few more treatments. The mind is a fragile thing and I would not risk you wandering down the roads to the Twisted Kingdom." The Black Widow stated softly, speaking of the madness the Blood recalled as the Twisted Kingdom. For only those mad, or who meddled with the mind would tamper with those dangerous roads. It has been irritating more than anything to find that his mind was a solid mass of walls and 'mirrors'. Fragmented memories, reflections on what was missing or what could have been taken out of context. The work was shoddy and Faeril had been disgusted at the roughness that left tattered edges about memories. The pieces frail and unraveling. Yet all could not be blamed on a mediocre workmanship, for the male also seemed to want to reject these memories. Those bits and pieces she had slowly gathered in her net. Turning over and examining each bit before setting it aside. Organizing what came first and then second in importance. The Black Widow had not been quite able to tell who the woman who was that made the memories seem lighter and full of life, nor what had caused the pain that brought tears to her eyes. Tears she now brushed away absently. Looking at these memories was like seeing something in a shattered mirror. Abstract, yet if viewed the right way it would make sense. The fragile chalice of the man's mind could be pieced together but the true healing would come from within. Bit by bit the woman had strung together the larger bits, adding a few smaller bits and pieces to secure the bridge she was building. These easy thoughts were the recent or big events in the man's life.
Now, she turned partly away from the man and gently rolled up the tangled web that held the spell she had set within his mind. While he had some seeking to forget her own search had picked up on a subtle lure within those recent events. So rather than erasing the pain, Faeril had dulled it. Fogging over the memories with a gently mist to make it seem as if it was someone else's life, but each time he thought harder on it that life would become more and more real. Perhaps it was underhanded of her, but the subtle feel of his mind only echoed with a vision she had seen not so very long ago. "Now, as for the manner of payment..." Faeril considered her options, what was the best way to keep this man close at hand for a time?
Winged Boar, Aren, Askavi
@Slim Shady
The wind rattled the winged boar that was carved on the sign outside of the rough and tumble pub, rattling the windows. A storm was getting ready to roll in and a storm could mean good business as people would look for a warm fire and drink. Or it could be the sort of storm that shook the entire building and made him need to get up the roof to patch another hole again, though Randalvar as he wiped out an ancient mug. The Winged Boar was a old tavern and showed the scars of that age. Posts that held up the ceiling were chipped and where the paint had faded showed the stone beneath. The floor was littered with small shards of pottery, glass and bits and bobs fallen from people's pockets as they scrambled out of the way when a fight broke out. As much as his granddaughter, Ellian, swept and scrubbed there was little hope for it. In better days, this place would be roaring with Eyrien warriors spreading news and trading stories. Even then, Randalvar thought with a rueful snort, fights were going to break out. Seemed to be a tradition and goodness knew how many he had gotten into himself as a stripling.
All in all though, the Winged Boar was built from the left over stone from the eyries that surrounded the building that nestled in with the rest of the small settlement. A way stop for hunting parties or warbands. The tables were solid unfinished pieces as were the various chairs and stools. The old Warlord saw no reason to waste his marks, the currency, on fancy fine works that would get smashed in the first hour because someone had to hold a pissing contest. Glancing over at the fire which was burning a bit low in the hearth, the Purple Dusk Warlord floated a fat log over the dancing flames. Sparking flaring up into the chimney as the log crashed down onto the remains of the other. "Ellian, go get to the kitchen." The winged man growled as he heard the heavy oaken door creak open. In this day and age it wasn't wise to let a young witch like his granddaughter around males. Especially when he was picking up the psychic sense that the male in particular was a Warlord Prince. It hadn't happened in Aren too often, may the Darkness be merciful! But young women and men had a way of disappearing and returning broken. Scarred by the Queens of Askavi and their twisted pleasures. Not bothering the great this newcomer, the Eyrien Warlord glanced towards the Tiger-Eye Warlord Prince who was perched in one corner nursing a particularly large tankard and looking dejected. "You need another mug, Denvar, or are you starin' at yer drink all night?" The man snapped looking peeved.
The dejected Warlord Prince shrugged absently, giving the Purple Dusk Warlord a woe begotten look. "Well, I may leave. If I do thought and Faeril isn't done, I'll just be back here and wet. Might as well just wait a bit longer and stay dry." There was a muttered word from the old man that did little to compliment the younger.
Main Road, Aren, Askavi
@Zoey White
The small village of Aren was odd to say the least. The people in Askavi seemed to build practically every house from rock and stone, line the streets with stone and not to mention the faint lights high up in the mountain sides that must be either small homesteads or house. A wind that was far more than merely brisk howled through the streets urging those few that were out in this weather to seek shelter or to find their way home, though a few stores and places of business were reluctant to close their doors. Hoping for the desperate, forgetful customer that would potentially stop by for some emergency supplies from their place of business. A smithy was glowing faintly at one end of the street, flanked by what appeared to be store selling the most general of goods on one side and a pub on the other. The glass windows of the pub looking smokey from the outside as though there had been a fire within at some point. The sign above it was the Winged Boar. In the smithy one could hear the bell like tone of a hammer striking iron, and see the figure of a large Eyrien working away at some tool or weapon.
Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll
@SilverPaw
A storm was blowing out of the Askavi mountains, the wind picking up to a ferocious speed. Travellers of all sorts were rushing ahead or turning about to try and make it to the last inn on the road. Most of the Blood would take to the Winds rather than travel on foot but there were always those that enjoyed the journey or didn't have the marks to pay for fair in a carriage on the faster Winds. Though the landing web next to the inn up the road seemed to have a row of people departing from it. It was rare, but every so often a storm would come along that could, and would, make travelling on the Winds difficult for those of the lighter Jeweled Blood. It wasn't a psychic storm, but the already treacherous Winds would become unpredictable and some would rather wait out the weather than risk themselves or their passengers. The inn itself was a fairly large building, sporting a stable and several other pens. As they were in Dhemlan, the puppet of Hayll, those pens were for livestock, of a sort. Several other small service buildings surrounded the fair grounds. A smithy, a Healers, and several farmers that sold their produce for a higher price on fair days.
A four story building, the Root's Teeth, was a cozy looking place that would have had the air of being well cared for if it wasn't for the underlying sense of terror, pain, suffering and hopelessness that permeated the grounds around it. Dark red blooms with pointed petals that were near black sprung from the ground about the building and fields. An invasive weed people called it. It could not be burned out nor destroyed, and the Darkness knew so many had tried! But Jandar would well know this 'weed' was no weed at all, but a horrible truth that wasn't spoken aloud. Witchblood was a living memento mori. A flower that only grew where a witch had been violently killed, a truth that was not forgotten in Kaeleer. Thunder clashed across the sky, as good as a call to battle that a storm was coming.
But was it merely a natural one?
Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll
@eclecticwitch
Hyall had once been a very giving land, but the land was a reflection of the Queens that ruled it. For centuries the land of Hyall had been put to the yoke of the Queens just as the people were for the pleasure of the Queens that claimed dominion. The toil farmers had to put into the land to receive so little back was something that was unheard of in those territories that still gave. Especially in the Shadow Realm of Kaeleer. It was like an itch that needed scratching to the attentive Queen, and to those who were not? It was nothing more than a mild irritant which they used to barb and prick the Court to their whims. The village of Eldan was a simple place. It's funds coming from the farms and the wool of the fat and lazy sheep that plodded about the steep hills. Those bits of land that had been given over for woodland were thick with nuts, berries, and dyes. The combination of wool and dye giving rise to a well sustained if not prosperous village's Weaver's Guild. Traders would come with supplies the village could not supply themselves and leave heaped with cloth and yarn.
Durik, the Steward for Queen Fatima, was looking over the supposed income they would be squeezing from a dry land. The sheep had a bad year due to flooding and mold in the grain. It wasn't anything they couldn't make up the next year with dropping a few new mine shafts into the nearby hillsides. However, the problem with that was the drop in the water and earth that would endure crops and sheep. Already the weavers had complained long and hard about how goats had inferior wool. Yet what more could the expect when they lost land that the herds of sheep could graze on! Running a hand through his patchy and balding hairline, the Rose jeweled Hyallian Prince groaned aloud.
"We could go and push our luck against on of the neighboring Courts for more land." The new Master of the Guard, Beneth, noted with a slight smirk. As far as anyone knew the lad was far too eager for a fight. Reasonable seeing as he was a Warlord Prince wearing the Opal. A powerful jewel in this region. Yet he had kept it hidden, resorting to his Birthright Jewel when company called. A good measure as well, if one of their number moved on it risked all their skins. The previous Master of the Guard had made that error and had 'went to visit relatives in Pruul'. Arranged per several members of Fatima's First Court. They could not risk word of their powerful Queen slipping out lest it bring the ire of the other Queens upon their heads and the heads of their families.
Hynter was already shaking his head, a mere Warlord of the Summer-sky, but he was a solid man. "And risk the District Queen or the Provincial Queen taking a look at us?" His tone was one of annoyance and contempt for Beneth, the two of them had never gotten on well at the best of time, so Durik hoped it would be headed off early before blood was shed. While he would do it himself, he didn't want to risk his neck when the rest of him was quite literally drowning in paperwork. His seat and part of the large table where a majority of the Court was gathered to argue covered in reports.
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