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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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Faeril gave herself a shake as she patted away the lines of tears. It wouldn't do for others to see her in such pain, after all. She was the Ice Healer, cold and heartless. Standing she smoothed out the wrinkles of her clothing, paranoid about maintaining her appearance. The night was drawing in, and supper would need to be made. It had been some hours since the boyos had left with their 'packages' and with luck they would be back soon. While she had little talent in the kitchen, between herself and a Queen they ought to be able to whip something into an edible form.

Fae's slippered feet padded softly on the carpets that ran through out the maze like eyrie. Her eyes studying the prone form of Fatima. A blanket wrapped about her explaining why she had not come storming down the stairs when Faeril had twisted about the mind of her former Court members. Tucking the blanket about the shoulders of the young Queen, a warming spell gently laid over it to keep the woman warm despite the fire having burned down the slow embers. For all the woman was a hard woman, she did have a heart albeit one that was buried deep under her gruffness. Too many patients had passed away while Faeril had strove to save them, too many family member and friends had passed to protect their secret from the twisted Queens who bent their will to Hyall's desires. The loss of her mothers, aunt and son... She was the last of a long line that was a natural Black Widow. Perhaps she had distant cousins who were of the caste, but Faeril had no way to contact them and even then there was the risk they had broken their honor for Dorothea's ambition.

[i]Bitch.[/i]

Soon there was a pot of rough stew boiling over a small banner of witchfire, and the steady chopping of a knife as meat and a small mountain of vegetables were chopped up and set to boil in a thick broth. A tight shield kept the mess from getting on her hands and clothes, though it was awkward to work about. She knew her Craft, but her Craft centered about being a Healer and Black Widow. Hearth craft was not her strongest suit in any way shape or form as evident by her puckered brow and narrowed eyes as she eyed up Gen's precious spice rack. [color=SlateBlue]"What am I to add? How on earth does Gen know these things?"[/color] 

[@nohbdies]The small hostel was not a true stop, but night was drawing in. The place was known to be run by a young Healer and her husband, both of whom were carefully eyeing the straggling folk who were seeking shelter for the night. While it would not be hard for a Sapphire Warlord to ride the Winds all the way through, it had been a long day already and Vaclav despite being healed would notice it might not be wise to show up in the dead of night. The hostel itself was a relatively clean place, filled with those who were taking a pause from travelling for rest or for food.

Artemis would notice an older woman near the warm hearth that kept the bite of the rain and bitter mountain air outside. She was an Eyrien past her prime, with no jewel upon her. A broken witch most likely. Her knobby fingers fed wood to the fire every so often as she carefully set about mending bits of cloth and clothing with shaking hands. The draw to heal this woman would be there, though not overly strong, as Artemis might notice arthritis in her withered hands.

[@Torack]The grizzled Eyrien gave a grunt as he wiped out a set of mugs with quick and practiced movements. Quiet as the bar was, it was not hard for the man to overhear the conversation between the two customers. While he had lost a wife to the District Queen when his wife had stepped up to the line when the changes first swept through Askavi, he had been spared his daughter thanks to the witches of the Ashkevron family. Since then, and like so many others in the town, he had kept his eyes and ears open for them. Directing those who needed their aid to them, and directing danger away. A healer was a valuable resource and a Black Widow? Even more so, when that Widow was on your side.

Thunking the two mugs before the wearied travelers, along with a pair of sandwiches, the old man gave a non-commental grunt. "Popular tavern today. Had a bar fight, had another fight before that." He noted with a annoyed look at the aftermath of a pair of Warlords getting too full of themselves. Setting his hands on his hips he studied the Warlord Prince carefully. "Overheard you're sniffing about for a death of some..." His words trailing of in question.