[hr][hr][center][img]https://i.postimg.cc/50VBWNfh/63507c917b644ae085a53d695ad43269.png[/img]
[img]https://66.media.tumblr.com/2fa3b68ea7ccb5e241580009fa3f8dfe/tumblr_nrjjdcXvK71uq1wtvo1_500.gif[/img][/center][hr][hr][h3][b][i][center][color=8519A2]Arc I - Terreille in Trouble[/color][/center][/i][/b][/h3]
[hr][hr]
[center][h3][color=SlateBlue]Faeril Ashkevron[/color]
[img]https://img00.deviantart.net/57a4/i/2017/010/a/2/yennefer_of_vengerberg_by_nikivaszi-da82bef.jpg[/img]
[color=SlateBlue]Present Day
Location - Ashkevron Residence in Aren, Askavi[/color][/h3]
[color=SlateBlue]Interacting with[/color] [@13org]
[/center]
[hr]

The woman merely nodded as she tied the strings that would hold the web close and slid into a wooden tube to further protect the delicate spell. Faeril had her own reasons for wanting to keel Mikhail near and it was not merely in his best interest. As a Black Widow and one of particular skill she had kept herself alive despite the pet Queens of Dorothea seeking out her sisters to ensnare into their courts or execute for defying them. A wonder they had never come knocking on her door, but with her Aunt's death Faeril had never advertised what she was. The people of Aren had aided as well by carefully turning away those whose interest was less than business. The village did not have a direct Queen holding her hand over it and all the better for that small blessing. Randalvar in the Winged Boar was her primary source of customers. The old warrior had a sixth sense about people and if they saw her of went missing he made sure he didn't know enough details to say more than they had left his bar- alone. If Gen or one of his brothers had followed them out...? Well, Randalvar made a point not to notice, he did have his tankards and glasses to keep clean. The man was as stoic as they came and if rumors were true he had a bigger bone to pick as he had, potentially, been a lover of her aunt before the woman's death.

That was neither here or there, however. Turning her blue gaze that spoke of ancestors that were not of Eyrien or the long lived races, the Black Widow and Healer studied the assassin offered his services. [color=SlateBlue]"Your services will do for a time until the treatment is complete."[/color] A wiry smirk that was far from comforting gracing her lips as she arched a dark brow. [color=SlateBlue]"After all, you will be staying here for a time and need to maintain your keep as you will be eating my food and needlessly drinking my ale. There is plenty of firewood to be chopped and mulch to be made."[/color] The woman pointed out while her smile turned to something more jesting. [color=SlateBlue]"When you are healed we will speak of your payment."[/color] And may the Darkness be merciful and let the one she was waiting for reach her before then. At the end of the day, this entire business would garner her nothing but it would potentially fuel the fire for hope and vengance, which would be enough.

[color=8519A2]Winged Boar, Aren, Askavi[/color]
[@Slim Shady] [@Zoey White]
Rnadalvar studied the man who walked into the tavern, his psychic scent screaming Warlord Prince as he scanned the room before finally choosing a seat at the bar. Though the words the man spoke stuck the old warrior like a blow, though the neutral face turned grim as he turned away from his customer to release the tap on a keg of ale and let it fill the freshly cleaned glass. In truth the man needed a moment to collect himself after the ground had been swept out from under him. Handovar had been a good fighter and a strong Warlord. Wearing the Summer-sky while being a fighter was dangerous and he had said as much. Foolish boy to ignore him.

Setting the tankard in front of the Eyrien Warlord Prince, he noted Denvar's pointed look and gave a muted shake of his head. This wasn't an enemy. The name Xandar Markov was well known enough from how the Eyrien Queens railed for his capture, sending men out after him and promising rewards that anyone would crave in times like these. Denvar settled back in his chair, raising his ale to his lip and taking a long draw from the tankard. Turning his gaze back to the rogue Warlord Prince as a woman slipped into the tavern, the grizzled old warrior slid a second, less clean tankard down to the woman. A woman bearing weapons at that. He briefly considered letting Denvar take that one up to Ashkevron's residence to see what their local Black Widow would think of her. "He fought bravely and died for his cause. An Eyrien's death." The man stated firmly as he let loose a brazen chuckle at the Ebon-Grey Warlord Prince's reaction to his neighbor. The man was wearing a Sapphire Jewel Randalvar noted. A wise move while in town. Picking up another tankard, the old Warlord began cleaning it out again. "If yer looking for somethin' you might want to go talk to the cringing bastard in the corner. He'll take you to our local Healer." There was a strange glint in the man's eye as he chuckled darkly. "The Lady will put you to rights. One way or the other. Though you may not like how 'right' leaves you." Keeping to the Eyrien tongue the grizzled old man continued. "An' take this here lass with ye. Aint normal for a witch to be carrying weapons. The Lady will want to have a 'chat' with 'er." Denvar gave a choking cough as he sat up, his feet thudding on the floor as he glared at old Randalvar.

[color=8519A2]Root's Teeth, Dhemlan Terreille[/color]
[@SilverPaw]
The Root's Teeth was a well cared for establishment if only because it seemed to house mainly the aristo in the seasons when the pens outside would be full and the witchblood would bloom. In it's off season it was a rest stop, a place where the Blood could pause in their travels for a roof over their head and a warm meal. However, Jandar would get the barest of hints of a underlying psychic scent that would seem off though he could not pin it down. Even in a tavern full of people while a storm howled outside there was an air of unease. The landing web outside was mostly clear now as the last stragglers dropped from the Winds and moved inside the Root's Teeth looking for room and board. While the storm may cause trouble for others, it was a blessing for the inn.

The man sitting next to the Warlord was a Prince his Tiger-Eye Jewel worn openly as was typical of the Blood. It was how their intricate game of power was played. A well kept man though his clothes had seen better days and the weight hung off him as though he once had more weight than he did. "Most likely it will blow over by the morning." The man stated with a dreariness in his voice. "I don't know how the Eyriens stand it up in their mountains but they weather storms like these for [i]fun[/i]." There was a edge to the Prince's voice as he stared blankly into his tankard. A young witch stepping carefully behind the bar shakily set a bowl of stew and a tankard of ale in front of Jandar before retreating with speed though trying not to run or garner his attention.

The crowd behind them shifted about as people vied for rooms, a small finger moving through the opening and closing gaps. Jandar would notice the figure heading to the door facing the stables. A quick entrance for the grooms and such. Their clothing didn't appear to be worn so much as ragged and patched. The black hair and gold eyes of the long lived races were prominent features that were easily noticed before the figure slipped out the door.

[color=8519A2]Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll[/color]
[@eclecticwitch]
The Master of the Guard gave a predatory growl deep in his throat as Fatima ordered him to wait and bide his time. Waiting for their people to be stronger. This made the Court shift anxiously. They were far older than Fatima in general, and they highly doubted there would be any [i]'thriving'[/i] for this village. Durik, for one, was moving into his twilight years. The grey of his black hair showing in threads here and there. The Steward had seen the rise of Dorothea and had not opposed the woman, ensuring his own safety in fact, as well as those of his brother's family. That said brother was buried in some unknown grave, having been a tool in a game between queens. A pawn that had been sacrificed. His nephews had too been pressed into joining the Courts, despite Durik's best efforts. His sister-in-law and her daughter had been plucked away powerful Warlord Princes. The Steward didn't bother to think upon their fate, it was an unwelcome thought and only served to weigh him down with guilt.

Wrapping a strong arm about Fatima's waist, Beneth gave Hynter a sneer. The other Summer-Sky Warlord looking away as to avoid a fight with the Opal Warlord Prince. Heaving a sigh of relief Durik looked over the books Fatima had procured. These were battered copies, but the idea was a decent one. "The problem also lies with the fact the land is [i]dry[/i]." It was not Durik who spoke, but his second- and soon to be replacement- Garren. The Preist was a quiet sort, with a long face and longer limbs. Looking enough like a crane that his White jewel was nearly over looked. While he was not a powerhouse, Garren was clever and could keep a book nearly as well as the aged Durik. "[i]Drained.[/i]" The man stressed, his hands emphasizing his point. "We can plant and grow, and try all we like. Let our land heal, and our neighbors will come in and take it." The soft voice was bitter, with good reason. Garren had suffered under Fatima's mother. Often being sent off to appease the neighbors. Neighbors he now loathed.

Durik nodded in reluctant agreement. "He has a valid point, Lady." The Steward said carefully. "But these beans will help, and the mine can be staffed by those- relocating- from other villages." Beneth was shaking his head, but Durik already had a counter to the worry of a threat slipping in. "Several of our folk have moved away to find only ill. What harm would there be in welcoming them back? Surely it would curry good will?"

It was the second eldest of the group, Jassen, who rubbed a hand through his own slightly grey locks. "If only we could consult the tangled webs." His cheeks were red and blotchy from drink as his words bordered on outright treason as he spoke of how the Black Widows looked into the void of time. Jassen had become a drunk in the past years, attesting a relationship at least on his end.