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[h1][u][b]Blood's Jewels[/b][/u][/h1]
[h2][u][i]“Terreille in Trouble”[/i][/u][/h2]
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[h3][color=SlateBlue]Faeril Ashkevron[/color][/h3]
[color=SlateBlue]Location - Ashkevron Residence in Askavi[/color]
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The rain fell in thick curtains of a steady downpour that would last the day as the Black Widow peered out the window that gave a lovely mountain view from a cozy kitchen. The sharp scent of stew that had been set to boil throughout the day was paired with another sweeter scent. Adjusting the witch fire that burned beneath a small pot big enough for a mere cup of liquid, Faeril gave it a small swirl of a silver spoon that had been passed down from her ancestors. Belor sat perched on a chair, and for a decently sized Eyrien warrior, the man appeared more like a drowned, winged rat than anything else. His expression far past thunderous and his thin lips clamped wisely shut. Faeril brooked no argument from males in her home and with good reason. A man that did not heed a Healer got in the way. One who did not listen to the Widow did not wander among the living for long. He had returned two nights past, and with news that was sour to his brothers and their chosen Lady.

Dusting her hands free of several herbal leaves, Faeril gave an amused look out the window at the grey landscape she called home. Were she a Queen herself they would not be going to such lengths, but she was not and oddly enough Faeril was grateful. She did not have the patience for stupidity and the knack of manipulating the Courts. Oh, she could do it well having grown up in one. But she was not a Queen and thus missed that subtle little something else they needed. Wringing moisture from the stem of a wormwood plant Faeril reasoned she would have met an untimely end before she would have matured. The twisted queens would not suffer a rival who could claim Healer and Widow as well as being a Queen. [color=SlateBlue]"If you keep sulking, you may go back outside and continue to make firewood for me."[/color] The Widow threatened the older Prince. [color=SlateBlue]"Really Belor. You pout like a toddler, yet you will not allow me to fix the problem."[/color]

As the dark haired Healer shook her head, the Eyrien male gave a deep growl that threatened violence. Though it was not intended to her, Faeril gave the Prince a sharp look gaining nothing but the contempt of a male for another of his sort who threatened what the Warlord Prince considered his. "You are [i]not[/i] going near that place. Not after that bastard tossed me out with a blade at my chest!" The wood under the large hands of Belor groaning before he remembered himself. "As if he does not know the rules of survival! You cannot be open-" A sharp click of Faeril's tongue cut the older male off.

[color=SlateBlue]"You should have brought him here-"[/color] The woman raised a hand, her leathery wings spreading slightly, to cut off Belor. [color=SlateBlue]"While he is an Ebon-Grey Warlord Prince, I believe him trustworthy. Believed."[/color] Faeril amended, for she too also worried that secrets were not going to be kept secret. That soon no one could be trusted and the Helios war camp was going to fall. It would suit with the weather. Belor merely shook his head stubbornly, casting his own look towards the window and past it. Down into the valley were the village of Aren lay. A small place that supplied the Eyriens about it, namely with a place to pick up a keg of ale. Or sit down to drink the keg and several others then need to be carted home by neighbors. Faeril shook her head with a wry smile and continued working on the little hangover cure she was putting together. Belor for all his sour mood was not sitting about just to sulk, but also to wait to see Denar and Gen have to drink the stuff. It was a bad tasting as it was sweet smelling and if he wasn't over a thousand years old the man would be rubbing his hands together in glee.

[@Torack] As Lucivar whirled in fury using his Craft to pin and pummel the Master of the Guard to the late Queen Karlianne, Tristan erected a shield to protect himself. The feat was nothing more than a token of resistance before the Ebon-Grey Power pummeled the broken man. There was only one jewel in all the Realms that could put down Lucivar with little trouble and few would drag him into battle without good reason. While there were other jewels that could go toe to toe with the Eyriend Warlord Prince, they were few in the Realm of Terreille. The Queens having worked to great effect in wiping out their best weapon in an attempt to keep the leashes of the Warlord Princes' in their hands, or bound to the Realm of Hell. Blood seeped from Tristan's lips as tears ran down his cheeks. "I do not deny my failing." The Master of the Guard whispered through the pain of his body breaking apart. It seemed he wished to convey more to the enraged Ebon-Grey Warlord Prince, but there was only a gout of blood, as his jewel's power was burned out and his remains went limp. Painting the once dainty walls about him with gore.

From the window Lucivar could see the many citizens of Greyhaven locked away in their homes and businesses for the best it seemed. Though those favorited by Karlianne were being dragged from home and shop, their buildings being ransacked by what appeared to be males from several courts that supported Lady Sonya Thorne. While those loyal to the late Queen were rallying in defense it wasn't going to hold. Hyallians were in the mix and devastating with their numbers and bloodlust. A wonder what pact Lady Sonya made to gain such aid from Dorothea of Hyall. The corridor and rest of the manor was filled with the throes of battle and fighting guardsmen that were slowly being pushed back. Those attempting to protect which now laid dead, her ruby blood spilled about the pale floor.