Avad:

The man crumpled his head into his hands as he looked over the situation in the garden below.

"What a mess this has turned into," he muttered. "It would've been such a nice party, too. I've not been to one for quite a time." For a moment he had a flashback to gashing bolts of lightning searing into unexpecting partygoers, but shrugged it off. [i]It's been near twenty-five years. I can handle it.[/i]

Sighing heavily, he took his head out of his hands and raised one into the air with outstretched finger, a bead of silver-gray light coalescing at the tip. Grunting out "[color=cccccc]Andom têllumar erentêl vanastel[/color]" and tracing a sigil in the air with the light on his finger, he turned to the patrol of guards beside him as the garden filled with billowing gray fog. "Go down there and calm them down. They're confused, there are rumors spreading, they don't know what's happening. And please," he added with a withering glare, "Sost's bones, do [i]not[/i] use lethal force. Try not to injure at all. They've all on the edge of riot already. The last thing we need is more chaos."

A salute, and they ran to do so. One, however, remained in salute. "Sir!" he bellowed, "what are you going to do?"

Avad sighed. "First, soldier, I'm going to do this." Again his voice lowered to a mutter: "[color=cccccc]Andom arbricopis êthen olmfeil[/color]." He traced a different sign, and he eyes of the soldier in front of him gleamed a dull gray and he rubbed them a moment, clearly confused. Avad inclined his head. "Fogvision. Otherwise you'd be as blind as those in the cloud down there. It's on all of your squad. And now," he turned, his ivory robe swirling about him in a suitably dramatic fashion, he thought, "I need to pay somebody a visit."

---

Grim-faced, Avad stood by the cell that the princess was in. He'd been taking care of her from afar for years now, and she looked as he'd never seen her: defeated. That was the word. Her eyes were dull, and she seemed closed in on herself. He sighed for what was perhaps the seventieth time that day. 

"Tahra," he began wearily, "why would do kill her? You were so close to the throne. I've known you for many years, girl, and I don't think you're stupid. So why?"

He hadn't believed it when first he heard. He'd heard, after all, many strange rumors from the guard barracks of the castle, ranging from the tragic to the raunchy and all in between. He'd thought nothing of one that the queen was dead, killed by her daughter. In fact, it wasn't even the first time he'd heard that. 

But then he saw the queen's body in the sanctum.

It had taken a vast amount of convincing to be let down here. [i]Technically[/i], only the highest ranks of military--General, Fleet Admiral, Archmage Ascendant--were allowed into the holding cells for those condemned to death, but he'd pulled some strings and pulled rank to slip down here 'unnoticed' for a brief time to talk to Tahra. Even then, he'd had to conceal himself in a misty shroud when making his way down into the truly deep cells, where only the king was allowed to walk.

"And one more thing, Tahra," he said, voice softening, "I know you'll die on the morrow, but...where are your wounds? You're doing a remarkable job of hiding them. The king was holding a bloody sword, said Eiendol. So the least I can do as courtesy is to treat them." For yet another time that night, a bead of light leapt to his finger, though it was more of a gold than a silver. He grunted and swayed. "Been off the front too long, getting soft and out of practice," he admonished himself. Locking eyes with the princess, he spoke. "Healing magic. Not the best at it, but if you don't know some, you're orders of magnitude less useful on the battlefield. Now, your torso is covered in blood. Let me patch you up."