Lightening roared and flashed as Falk swirled into shadow, reappearing on his ancient throne. The Irish girl sat on the steps up the throne, plucking her harp, but the Fae Lord gave her no mind. The meeting had revealed much and the Hunt was restless. Stretching long legs out before him, the shadowy Fae Lord, gave a wave of his hand, the hunt quelling and slinking back to their pools. Not yet, he would hold the hunt from riding for a time yet. But they must ride soon, it would only worsen their fury to be kept waiting. Something that Falk was certain would be a advantage. Perhaps one would approach him wondering on the Moot and his actions. But he would wait. Fall was nothing but patient.