[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]
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[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]
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Gen gave a chuckle as he shook Mikhail's hand and led the man through the winding halls of the eyrie towards the homely kitchen that was the Warlord's domain. [color=FireBrick]"I would not let Faeril hear you say such, unless you actually want to get stabbed."[/color] The Warlord cautioned with amusement in his tone. [color=FireBrick]"Coffee or something stronger? Ashke didn't say [i]not[/i] to let you drink so..."[/color] His wings rustled as the Eyrien warrior shrugged. The halls of the eyrie were stone in all aspects save for the odd painting or table that sported some vase or other decorative piece. Thick rugs spaced evenly though the halls softened the feel of stone and most likely were only there to keep one's feet from feeling the bite of cold stone when the warming spells wore off during the winter months.

It did not take long for the Eyrien to show their 'guest' into the homely kitchen. Three archways opened into the room, one of which was the hall that wound about the eyrie. The arch across from their entrance led into what appeared to be a pleasant dining room. Sunlight would have filled that room and cast a warm glow even into the kitchen if it had not been storming. To their right was the front room, a formal sitting room of sorts. To their right was a heavy oaken door that led out to the garden visible through the widows above the stone work counters. Walking around the sturdy table that took up the middle of the room Gen took a pot off the counter and filled it with water from the sink. Setting it on the stove as he summoned a ring of wytchfire beneath it to heat the liquid. [color=FireBrick]"So why did a Dea Al Mon come to Terreille? Assuming that you don't have a death wish?"[/color] The Eyrien asked blundering through the personal question with the typical amount of tact the males of his race had for such things. His hands busy grinding up some of the beans for coffee.

[color=8519A2]Winged Boar, Aren, Askavi[/color]
[@Slim Shady] [@Zoey White]
Denvar winced as the the foolish little witch snapped to the Eyrien Warlord Prince. On the best days it was best to treat an unknown male of that caste with respect and careful handling until the measure of the man was taken. They were most volatile of the castes and, as a member of that caste himself, he could vouch for that fact. Giving a sharp nod, he caught the woman before she hit the ground and he got an earful about injuries from Faeril. [color=Tan]"Might be best lass to [i]not[/i] agitate that one."[/color] He advised the woman as her things followed her with a clatter. Taking a bit of forethought to that matter, Denvar [b]vanished[/b] the witch's weapons to the small pocket of power the Blood could store such things in. It wasn't comfortable with what he already held, but he could make do for now. As Xandar joined the two, Denvar gestured through the falling rain up towards the Eyries that perched on the mountainside and one particularly lonely one that sat just a bit closer to Aren than the rest. [color=Tan]"We'll have to fly so if you don't mind, witchling?"[/color] The witch was a cocky fool and only going to get herself in trouble. After all what was such a light jeweled witch doing in Aren and with such weapons like? The options were few and honestly, Denvar hoped she was just a fool and not hunting for males else it would be a rather tense night. Looking over at Xandar, the Tiger-eye Warlord Prince sighed. It was going to be a tense night anyways.

Randalvar studied the mess that was being made of his bar and sighed in annoyance. "What is it with you younglings and having to have contests." The old warrior muttered absently, waving off Xandar's words as he glared at the drink that still dripped from his bar to the floor which lacked the same [b]shield[/b]. "Ellian! Get a mop and rag will you?" He called back to his granddaughter withdrawing the shield that blocked the kitchen.

[color=8519A2]Root's Teeth, Dhemlan Terreille[/color]
[@SilverPaw]
The crowd did not seem to resent the man so much when he wasn't shoving his way through the busy floor of the tavern. Though the male that had the crooked nose was eyeing him suspiciously, though his attention was pulled away by a group of men pulling him into their conversation. They were too far away and the tavern too loud for Jandar to make out what they were saying. Their smiles didn't quite reach their eyes and the servers were uneasy about them. Though as he passed Jandar would find it nearly impossible to pin point the pale man's psychic scent or strength, there were just too many people.

The noise of the tavern however was dulled as the stable door closed after the Kaeleer native. The softer sounds of horses restlessly digging through straw and munching on hay and oats taking the place of shouts and bawdy laughter. The smell of leather, horse and fresh straw would be refreshing most likely though the subtle wrongness was just barely present here too. It seemed that folk had left the stable alone, seeking food or warmth as there was a certain nip to the air even in this Craft heated building. The damp was just pushing it's chill to everything and it would be a sad night for those who didn't make it to shelter in time. As Jandar fed Teo the carrot, he would hear a rustling high above in the loft of the stables. Up there were bed rolls among the bales and grain sacks for when the inn was too full and the stable workers were tossed out to mind the horses for the night. The scrawny child Jandar had seen earlier was picking through a small leather satchel. It's leather detailed and stylized with high craftsmanship that spoke of wealth or at least a means to obtain such things. The young Blood was blood but the psychic scent was subtle, jut a little off enough that it would be hard to pinpoint exactly what Caste they belonged too. But the pale gold eyes of the long lived races and the pale hair of a short lived race that was butchered quite short spoke of mixed blood. The tanned skin of the Hyallian, Dhemlan and Eyrien was lighter than most others. "Dammit all. Nothing in here but trash." The voice sounded young and more than a bit hoarse as papers were tossed to the side. Sealed letters, most likely the purse belonged to a courier.

[color=8519A2]Queen's Residence, Eldan, Hayll[/color]
[@eclecticwitch]
The young maid could do little but comply as Fatima took Illyria's hand within her own and sat upon the bed. Looking nervously about the room the witch felt trapped. Admitting she knew of this person to a Queen no less would be a huge risk on her part let alone. Black Widows after all were outlawed and actively seeking their aid was dangerous. For Illyria to reveal this breach of the laws to a Queen was damning on her part. In truth it had been an act of desperation. Begging for a healing of the mind when her younger brother had been badly wounded in his spirit by another Queen. Risking her position as a maid she had withdrew from the Court when the older Queen had still ruled. Pleading for time to get her brother settled, never mind he was already settled with their parents.

It had taken months, and more marks than she had, but Illyria had found the woman she had been looking for. "Please forgive me," The young maid begged looking close to throwing herself upon the ground or shooting out the window. "It was years ago, but I needed some help. From a woman. A Black Widow." Swallowing the thick knot of worry in her throat, Illyria whispered in terror. "I- ah- overheard your discussion with the First Circle and I- No one else heard, just me." The woman assured Fatima desperately. "Well, I do know of one." And she was risking everything by telling Fatima of this.