[@rechonq]

Aisling sat and strummed the harp. The cold stone beneath her yielded little comfort, but after much sitting and strumming she no longer minded. Mist wove about her like wind blown hair something she quiet enjoyed. Often the mist was dense when the King was absent but when he was about it allowed light to pass and gave a almost mystical feel to the Great Hall. But the Hunt was gathering, now the mist was something threatening and terrifying. A shroud covering a dagger. Aisling wondered what the Fall King wanted with the King of Summer, but knew better than to ask. Asking would get her nothing. Her job was to play her harp and bring him books. Be a general amusement, a pawn for his games of grandeur. 

Already she was getting a feeling that his taking her on was not a whim but something far in the planning. That now the wheels were moving and the Fall King had no intentions of letting the die land at a disadvantage to him. The pool from which he saw about his Realm shimmered and gleamed in his power. Ice forming along the edges like in the dying days of Fall before Winter came. Her Lord was not pleased about the Moot. Something had not gone to plan. He sat in his throne, not stretched out but hunched forward. His eyes a ghastly green and shining, his hands steepled before him. She heard him send out the call, beckoning the Fae he sent as messenger- Lost, was it?- to return to him as soon as the package was delivered and with haste. Aisling fought down the need to flee. He wanted something and when Falk wanted something. He got it. The Fall King was never denied.