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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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A strong hand patted Fatima's back as Denar guided the Queen to the chair she had occupied formerly. The Warlord Prince acting within his instincts despite this woman being no Queen of his. Faeril watched on with her impassive eyes of ice, the Saroth brothers waiting for the decision of their de facto leader. Pinching the bridge of her nose, the Black Widow in her reconciled the possible avenues. Point out that it was unlikely any Hyall witch would be able to break a tangled web the Red were to weave about the men. [color=SlateBlue]"Bring them."[/color] The woman snapped with a sharp gesture that had both men- Denar being far more concerned with the Queen- turning on their heels and rushing to retrieve their guests. Willing or not, Faeril noted with a stern, cold smile. The Warlord Princes would come and there were enough men in the village who owed the Ashkevron Healer and Black Widow that they would aid the Saroth brothers.

Turning on her heels the woman strode down the hall, leaving the Queen with her protector. Denar would see to it she did not leave the room, and thus interrupt the delicate spell work that Faeril was about to weave. Hefting aside the tasteful painting that leaned agianst the wall in her private quarters, the Widow revealed the heavy door that led down into the depths of the mountain. Carved by lovers, husbands, and sons over times that a shorter lived race would deem more than merely ancient the stairs opened up into a room that would not allow sound nor psychic scent to betray it's existence. Wooden shelves housed books bound in delicate leather that had been copied several times over. A large table that was scarred and stained from mistakes or purpose was set against one wall, bearing the weight of the mountain above. But it was the large stone slab in the center of the room that was the terror of all who entered. Thick straps would hold a victim down while the Widow extracted the knowledge or payment. Once that table had been for innocent purposes. Something better than wood, that would bear the weight of ages. Then violence came and the blood of the Blood had been spilled upon it's surface in defense of the Askevron witches. Now Faeril would spill it for the Queen that would remake Terreille for the better.

Flipping open a particular tome the woman scanned the pages aimlessly. Waiting in absolute patience as the witchlights about her flickered. The sound of male voices raised in argument announced them before Gen and Belor appeared hefting one of the Warlord Princes between them. A large man with a Opal jewel upon his finger. [color=SlateBlue]"Hold him down."[/color] He had put up a damn good fight as Faeril studied the battered Eyrien males. Gen was sprouting two black eyes and a good many deep cuts that didn't require immediate healing. Belor was not so lucky. His wing was torn and his body was covered with deeper gashes. All in all, they looked like they had been through a war as they wrested the struggling Warlord Prince to the table. [color=SlateBlue]"You two will go and see the village Healer when we are done."[/color] While she could have done it herself, Faeril was not sure what shape she would be in after this. Denar appeared behind his brothers with a man smelling strongly of drink and the Healer guessed he only had a few years left even with his jewel burning the brew off. Meaning he had left the Queen to her own devices. 

Snapping a Red lock about the door at the base of the stairs the woman shook her head. [color=SlateBlue]"I've gone soft. Trying to spare the Queen agony. You two would do well not to fight me."[/color] She advised the two escorts. Only to have spit land just shy of her eye. Raising a gloved hand to wipe away the mess she plucked off the soft material, tossing them onto the stone table. Laying a hand just out of reach of the struggling Beneth's teeth Red power slammed into the metal shields and tore against them. Slowly rending his mind open to her work. It would be easier if he did not fight her, but what could she do? He would fight her no matter what, his dislike was plain. Something that irked the woman, for his hatred of her stemmed from her being a Black Widow. Something she had been born to. Slowly Faeril began her work, weaving a truth into his mind and the truth of the world. Slowly her reorganized his memories, spinning the truth in a snare that would fight against any removal of it. His Queen had left them, ordered them to return. She had gone to seek out a Black Widow. Her tangled web using his hatred of the caste to fuel the certainty that Fatima had fallen to the hands of one.

Releasing his mind, his eyes now glazed in the fog of delirium, Faeril turned to the drunk. His mind was far easier to enter, for he was either far too drunk or had given in. In truth though it was neither. He saw the Black Widow for what she was. Someone who sought to aid his child- a child he had been denied the paternity to and thus could not acknowledge. It had been Fatima's mother's cruel punishment for obeying her. Jassen had slept with other witches for the pleasure of his Queen and to aid her, even as she sneered at his 'betrayals' which were nothing of the sort. Little wonder why he drank, then and now. The death of his Queen, the risk his daughter was going through. Was it his fault? [color=SlateBlue]"No. Not your fault. You did as you could. Which is all any of Terreille can do. Now we do as we must."[/color] Faeril soothed quietly. She could not risk him knowning the truth and Jassen understood this. Weaving the web of lies and deceit within him. The Black Widow knew that it was not going to last long. The loss of a lover and Queen was a hard blow, but the loss of his child- even with paternity denied... He would not outlive the months to come. Collapsing against the stone table, Faeril covered her eyes with one hand as she pulled out of Jassen's mental shields. [color=SlateBlue]"Take them to the border. Leave them there."[/color] She snarled, knowing all three were considering remaining. A risk they could not take. They needed to get rid of the men of the Queen lest her webs begin to unravel. The Red lock on the door undid itself as Faeril gave a sharp flick her her fingers. Limping up the stairs after her family, the Ashkevron slouched on the bed dabbing at the tears that slowly fell from her eyes.

[@nohbdies] Artemis would notice a speck high in the sky, winging hard towards the Tamanara Mountains and Askavi. A likely place where those seeking somewhere to lay low could. If you didn't mind the scorn of the warrior race of Terreille. Eyriens were proud and consider themselves the closest race to the dragons that were the first of the Blood. Of course this gave some of them a ego to match their blunt ways.

[@Torack] Lucivar would catch the Winds, riding on the web of the Ebon-Grey back towards Askavi. While perhaps not he best place to go it was a good ways from Dena Nehele. A place where he could rest. The village was a small thing, settled among the tall mountains and typical of a Eyrien community it was built within the stone itself. The Winged Boar was the local in and tavern, sitting just above the forest lest it be too far away from the source of wood and local game that provided it with most of its fare. Within the bar looked like a war had hit it. Tables and chairs were shattered, flattened or tossed aside. Blood speckled spots in the floor, and the psychic scent of a fight was a few hours old. The grizzeled barkeep was straightening tables as he made snarly comments about some 'getting too big for their britches'. A younger woman- perhaps a daughter- mopping up a decent pool of blood from the floor. Looking over as the chime of the bell sounded the Eyrien looked about ready to shout before realizing he was facing a potential customer. "A good day to you, don't be minding the mess. Bit of brawl is all. What can we do you for?" His voice was weathered and was the remains of someone who had shouted a bit too often to his men before retiring to this slower business.