[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/190811/ebaf9cbdde92c7897e853938cfe68fe5.png[/img]

[color=6E8E67]Location:[/color] Sharon, Shalador[/center][hr][hr]

It was the usual clamor to bed.  Deciding watches - Fatima offered to be the first but it seemed Xandar was determined to be as such.  She would take the last then.  She would do her part.  Of that she would ensure.  She could not allow herself to be some useless twit of a Queen.  And she'd already done enough damage.  With a soft sigh she found a dry, quiet corner of the broken village to rest herself.  A decaying hut that was far enough away for the solace of solitary but close enough that the men did not throw a fit about it.  She sat a while on her blanket and studied the odd flute she had found earlier.  She liked holding it in her hands.  It felt... soothing.  The ridges and notches in the wood allowed her fingers a slight insight to the history of the object.  She considered the day as her hands moved over the flute.  She considered her wrongs and what she would do going forward.  She thought about their plan and what steps she needed to take to ensure the safety of the odd troupe.  Of her Court, though it was no where near complete.  And she thought about the person who would be a part of it.  The dangerous, black jeweled Queen killer that was undoubtably hers.  The thought of him caused her to shudder and she vanished the flute before rolling herself up tightly in a cocoon of blanket.

Sometime later she awoke.  

Not from sound or trouble.  

Not from some sixth sense or the tingle of Craft.

It was because she had to pee.  

[i][b]Badly[/b][/i].

Fatima took some time to untangle herself from her safe haven of cloth; she had managed quite the knot around herself.  Once free she did her best to tiptoe out into the wilds of the night.  She didn't want to go near the camp, she needed quiet.  And a tree to lean against.  She found the perfect spot and whilst relieving herself she began to overhear voices.

[i]Shit[/i].

She did not wish to be caught with her pants down, quite literally, especially if it were an enemy.  Hurriedly Fatima finished her business and righted herself.  Trousers in place, shirt tucked in, and no dribbles.  She carefully made her way toward the voices, her bare feet avoiding branches and rotting leaves.  Softly, calmly, precisely.  As she came upon the scene, it was not anything she could have imagined.  There was Mikhail and Jandar.  Bellinar.  A child.  A dog.

Bleary eyed, tired, dressed men's clothing and her hair a fantastic, alive mess which stood out at odd angles from her head- she was the perfect picture of what we in these parts call 'a hot mess.'  Not at all Queenly.  But she managed to keep her air about her, the birthright that would never allow her to seem as anything but what she was.  She was a Queen.  She allowed herself to be less conscientious of her tread and approached the group just in time to hear clearly - [color=20B2AA]"...bet she’d be just as supportive as Mikhail is."[/color]

[color=6E8E67]"Supportive of what?"[/color] She inquired in a voice cracked and raspy from disuse.  She cleared her throat and continued in a voice more normal to herself, [color=6E8E67]"What cute pups, could someone tell me what sort of misadventure has transpired while I slept?  I always seem to miss the fun."[/color]  Her tones were intended to sound jovial and joking.  The air here was thick with tension and she would not allow that to fester.