[center][color=crimson][h2]Xandar Markov[/h2][/color][/center]

[color=crimson][center]Location: Smuggler's den in town[/center][/color]

Xandar has chased after the shadowy figure to see it had hidden itself away in what looked to be like a smugglers den of sorts. Figures. Shadowy people gravitate towards shadowy places. He had all but shattered the table that was once hiding the entrance, ripping it from where it was and tossing it out of the building with a loud crash. This is probably what led Faeril to follow him, possibly. 

[color=crimson]”Nosey, are we woman? Why don’t you help Gen or something? I’m busy with our guest.”[/color] Xandar grunted, resorting to jumping off the ladder and landing softly, aided by his wings, in fear the whole thing would break under his weight. He looked up and gave a low whistle. [color=crimson]”Great view, but you may want to watch your step. It seems you’ve ripped your dress. Which actually may be a blessing in disguise, you were in need of new ones.”[/color]

Xandar turned towards the rest of the room, scanning the various crates and boxes, looking at the fresh dust where the figure stepped. He summoned his sword, clenching it in his right hand.[color=crimson] “If you make me search this place, you won’t like the end result when I find you. It’d be best to give yourself up now. Or, better yet, I can burn the whole place to ashes along with you.”[/color]

Faeril was less than pleased at the Warlord Prince’s retort. [color=SlateBlue]”Enjoy the view, it’s the only one you’ll get.”[/color] Snapped the witch, coloring at her own thoughtlessness. Peering through the darkness, she wondered how on earth he could even see. Her wings folding tightly to her back in the narrow basement, never mind her own workroom beneath her house was not much larger. [color=SlateBlue]”And my clothes are perfectly fine! Perhaps I am not so enthralled by those cumbersome wing slits they cut into fashions now.”[/color] She muttered in their shared native language as she wrested with the snared fabric lest the dress tear beyond repair.

There was a slight rasping of a dry throat as a rusty voice echoed through the dark. [color=Olive]“Give myself up to what? A Queen’s pleasure? She had her pleasure. I doubt she could take more.”[/color] There was a bitterness to the voice. [color=Olive]”Please, just leave me be.”[/color]

[color=crimson]”Wing slits are very fashionable! And work very effective. Although I usually wear nothing at all.”[/color] he murmured back in the same tongue, before looking over towards the voice that called out in the darkness. Xander rest the blade on his shoulder, casting his gaze where the voice came from. 

[color=crimson]”There is no Queen here, only a Queen Killer. You are within the vicinity of me and my party, therefore I have come to investigate. Nothing else is here besides us and the viper rats, and they don’t make very good company.”[/color]

Xandar summoned a bit of fire in his hand, lighting up the area around him as his eyes adjusted to the light, making it easier for both himself and Faeril to see. Mostly her, as his eyes were very keen to the dark, having gone through long nights of pure darkness in combat. [color=crimson]”State your business, and if you have none, I suggest you find yourself somewhere else to hide far away from here.[/color]

[color=Olive]”And where else can the dead go?”[/color] Growled the voice, the fire lighting up the room enough that Xandar could see the corpse. A Shalador man it seemed, wearing the Purple-Dusk. One leg was missing at the thigh, his hands were seared as though put through an inferno as well as most of his left side. HIs face, however, was covered in a hood, a blessing perhaps. The voice issued from beneath it and the gaping hole in his chest which the ragged shirt didn’t quite hide.

[color=SlateBlue]”What is it? Can you see who it is?”[/color] Hissed Faeril from behind Xandar, the bulk of the Eyrien warrior blocking the way as she hovered behind him. Eager to find out who their watcher was and if there was any potential damage meant to their little group. Blissfully unaware of the twisted remains that spoke to them. Xandar might recall the creeping tales of his youth about the demon-dead. Those of the Blood who lived on after death, feeding on the living. Devouring them. Of course, it was an effective tale to spin to a group of children on a late-night to warn them to be good. [color=SlateBlue]”Must I do everything myself?!”[/color]

[color=crimson]”The dead belong six feet under, but here you are. A dead man walking. Now give me a good reason why I shouldn’t personally escort you to the grave.”[/color] Xandar growled back, cautiously watching the purple-dusk demon dead. He was an ugly son of a bitch, and tales of these demon dead did not speak of them kindly. But either way, he wouldn’t wander all the way here for nothing. 

He looked back at Faeril, stepping to the side slightly but still well standing between her and the Shalador man slumped on the ground. His sword was still kept firmly in one hand, pointing at the man, the other holding the fire. [color=crimson]”You may look for yourself, if you like, but you’re not going any farther than my sword. What do you make of our guest?”[/color]

Faeril glared at Xandar as he stipulated that she wasn't get closer than his sword to the burned demoan-dead. [Color=SlateBlue]"I make that he was burned and staked through the chest. Really, what am I supposed to tell you with this lighting and at a distance."[/color] Despite her sharp words, Faeril made no move to get closer, her eyes slightly wide as she gazed upon the man.

Rasping, the demon spoke once more. But it was forlorn, tired almost. [color=Olive]"What grave? This entire town is filled with the dead. No, not like me. They stayed dead. The Queen and her brat broken them down and slaughtered them for fun."[/color] Faeril winced, as those thoughts conjured an imagination of what the stone and wood might show her if she drew out their memories.

Xandar pauses for a moment, listening to the words of the man before vanishing his sword. However, his arm was still protectively covering Faeril. He didn’t think the man could do much or get far in his condition, but he wasn’t going to let his guard down completely. He didn’t know much about his kind, and the stuff he did hear about was bad. However, he would give him the benefit of the doubt. Any person who was wronged by an evil queen had at least a little sympathy from the Reaper.

[color=crimson]”Fair enough. I’ve seen many places like this, shattered and broken by a Queen. Instead of making the land prosper they now burn it for their amusement. I’ve lived my life to fight against them… So if what you say is true, we have a common enemy it seems.”[/color] 

The Eyrien Warlord Prince looked back at Faeril, rolling his eyes at her comment before looking back at the dead man. [color=crimson]”The fact still stands that you, despite the others, are among the living and have not stayed dead. This leads me to believe you have a purpose for it then? Maybe a grudge, if you will.”[/color]

[color=Olive]”Oh, I got a grudge. Not that I can do much about it.”[/color] Rasped the demon, sounding forlorn and bitter. Faeril still glowered at the Warlord Prince for the arm in her way, though she was oddly grateful for it. As a Black Widow she was part of the Hourglass Coven, which had essentially gone underground if they wished to remain free of the twisted Queen. Mothers teaching daughters their Craft lest it be forgotten. Yet lines would fail and die out. Coven growing smaller. Their knowledge was vast, but they only had a limited time. Though she remembered a bit more about the blood she might offer, she kept her silence. Unsure if she wanted to offer something that might cause the demon to attack her. [color=Olive]”The dead aren’t staying about for a grudge. I’ve been along for some decade… I can feel my jewel running low, and ‘fore long it’ll run dry. Think that might as well be my Death.”[/color] The man mused raising a twisted hand to push back the cowl and reveal a face that had been melted by flames and a missing ear that had been cut off. [color=Olive]”Killed some as didn’t need killing. For the blood. A woman hiding out here. I shouldn’t have, but I was desperate. I didn’t want to go yet and I was foolish enough to think I might do something to stop those bitches.”[/color]

Xandar shook his head, realizing at least part of the rumors were true. The dead did feed off of the living to last a bit longer, but it seemed they weren’t as blood crazed as he thought. Even still, he couldn’t fault the man. He had killed dozens, hundreds, for worse reasons. [color=crimson]”Well in your state I don’t think you’ll be getting any revenge, no. But, revenge is more or less my speciality, and killing twisted Queens and their following is my calling in life.”[/color] Xandar looked the man in his hollowed face, taking his arm away from Faeril and crossing it over his chest, his fist on his heart. [color=crimson]”If you have anything useful to share, you can rest easy knowing the Queen that wronged you has a swift death coming.”[/color]

[color=SlateBlue]”We cannot risk discovery!”[/color] Hissed the Black Widow, her eyes narrowing in the dark. [color=SlateBlue]”Killing the Queen of this place is not an option!”[/color] It would potentially put their own Queen at risk and she couldn’t do that.

[color=crimson]”Did I say right now? No. Quit your bickering woman.”[/color] Xandar looked back at the Widow, patting her head with his hand. [color=crimson]”But, is it not our long term goal? To make things right? And even so, we could at least get information that might be useful to us if you play along here.”[/color] He said that last bit in their shared tongue, before turning back to the very grotesque looking man on the ground. 

[color=crimson]”Dead men usually tell no tales, but if you do, I’ll be glad to listen.”[/color]