[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]In front of Ashkevron Residence, Askavi[/color][/h3]
[color=SlateBlue]Interacting with[/color] [@Slim Shady] [@eclecticwitch] [@13org] [@Zoey White] [@SilverPaw]
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Gen snarled at the insult Dareen unintentionally spoke towards the Ashkevron eyrie. [color=FireBrick]"Not a torture chamber, and you'd be wise never to repeat that in Faeril's presence."[/color] It took a few visibly deep breaths as Gen got himself back under control, the wound striking close to home. [color=FireBrick]"Black Widows are a secretive bunch and perhaps the Ashkevrons are an old family. Their Black Widows worked their Craft down here in private. To [i]heal[/i], more than they harmed, though we are Eyriens and sometimes a price needs to be paid for what was taken. The Ashkevrons extracted that price one way, or the other."[/color] The Green Jeweled Warlord gave the Pruulish witch a pointed look. There were times when a male got too caught up with themselves and they violence they could wreak. A life would be left in ruined, and a price would be demanded of the perpentrator. [color=FireBrick]"My brother and I sought out the Ashkevrons, our mother was broken and unable to protect herself let alone us. Eyrien society is not kind to half-bloods, but that did not matter to Lady Nivarian. So think before you slight my friend and her family."[/color] Gen's voice was harsh, old memories stirring in his mind as he placed silk over the books and [b]Vanished[/b] the trunk. Calling in another which he began filling with tools in far better condition. Not a single thread was getting left behind if the Warlord could help it.

The Eyrien was also pointedly ignoring Mikhail as he stabbed the prisoner in his thigh. Blood welling up around the hilt of the dagger as the blade bit deep, the leg jerking but thankfully no major veins were hit. The Warlrod wore the Opal and growled in pain as Mikhail jerked the dagger out. Blood spreading across the stones, Gen wincing at the thought of the cleansing that would need to be done of the room- again. "Start? Just finish it, you'll kill me anyways freak." Snarled the fighter as he jerked against the ropes that held his hands, it was lucky for his three captors that the Ebon-Grey attack had drained his jewels. The other one, a Purple-Dusk was stony in his silence as he came aware of the situation.

In front of the Eyrie, Fatima and Jandar laid waste to Faeril's front garden. What survived the fight as they built the pyre for Jassen. Bellinar cringing and thanking forethought that the herbs and plants Faeril actually cared about were in the back garden and thus not easily accessible for trampling. [color=DarkKhaki]"Ashke is going to kill us all for the mess we are going to leave her house."[/color] The Warlord Prince nearly moaned. As he hefted some of the firewood that sat next to the house to start to form a platform for more. There was not nearly enough for a pyre. He suspected that Gen had been planning on fixing that fact today. Well, there had been a lot of plans today that were ruined. The stiff wind had scuttled away the rain that had fallen leavin the wood and ground wet and soggy. Now it was merely overcast once more. Dreary the day.

Xandar would find himself not alone as there was a thud as the grizzled barkeep landed near to the trees. His own warblade in hand, a weapon that had seen better days. Though not for the lack of upkeep and care. It just was an old blade that was well used and loved. Randalvar looked furious and wary, "Prince." He addressed Xandar, his wings rustling nervously. "I sensed a fight up by the Eyrie. Came as soon as I got my lass somewhere safe." A reasonable fact, especially as a group of angry and battle thirsty Eyriens, could very have descended on the town with the thrill of victoy. Something that would not have done well.