[color=#1A1A3B][b][u][h1][sub][sub][sub]Farren[/sub][/sub][/sub][/h1][/u][/b][/color]		    awoke to a sight of opulence beyond even what he’d imagined those such as royalty would possess. Faint flashes from his youth were pulled from the depths of his mind, but not true memories precisely, more like flights of fancy partaken whilst in play amidst his peers. Some of those ideas had been true, others not so. Palaces writ entirely of gold or carved from the bones of great beings seemed to be outside the realm of reality, but still…he’d never seen so many candles in one place, nor so much gold all at once. The thrones themselves–if they were truly solid gold–must be worth more than the backwater he’d grown up in–though he remembered it only faintly, and said memories were scarce of a name.

Further, it seemed they were–indeed as one might expect from the Lantern’s bestowed name–in the presence of the Queen of the ‘Vilebloods’. Likely–if the other throne’s absence of an occupant was anything to go by–she was the sole monarch, bereft of a King or Consort or whatever other such term people such as these used to refer to their spouses.

Farren frowned and the expression remained. He listened as Ophelia and this…Queen went back and forth, his Azure-eyes watching the monarch. Her withered form, her masked visage and the finery which her frail frame barely occupied. Perhaps this was the effect of Vileblood, as the church had called it in their efforts to paint a rival power as false and ugly things.

To the Azure-eyed hunter, they were much the same. Masters presiding over others with Power borrowed, acquired through deceit, inherited, or otherwise obtained through methods of ill repute. Even if such were not the case…Power corrupted. This Farren knew and so his arms crossed and–for once–he did not have a hand near or upon a weapon. For, while he might have been born of the lower class–the peasantry, these folk would likely call it–he understood that to do such a thing in a Queen’s presence was at best unwise.

This idea was further confirmed to be true when a servant–a man in monk’s robes, moving like a ghost…stepping from shadows (perhaps literally), and clad in a subtle obscuring darkness–appeared as if from thin air in response to the monarch’s call. Farren’s fingers twitched, but he kept his arms crossed and his spine straight. As he listened to the Queen’s command, his eyelid twitched as he recalled the arm that he’d entrusted to the Messengers.

As if hearing his thoughts, Ophelia spoke and Farren felt his mood sour.

"My companion, Farren, took a piece of the remains--should we present it to you now?" Ophelia continued, pondering this order to invade Yahar'gul as she did. 

"We had intentions to go back to Yahar'gul and finish what we started. If it would please Your Majesty, we would be happy to spearhead the incursion?"

Sighing internally, but daring not to let such an utterance reach the Queen, Farren spoke, his rough, low voice a somewhat rumbly echo in the cavernous room–seeming small, an impression that the man found he didn’t much like either.

[color=#1A1A3B][b]“Indeed…your eminence. I’ve the right arm of the–”[/b][/color] his speech halted for a half-instant as he made a mental correction, [color=#1A1A3B][b]“...prince. Held in a tender embrace beyond.”[/b][/color]

Though it could not be detected in his tone, Farren was annoyed and he’d clenched one half of his jaw, the teeth pressed together in a silent grind. He could have used that arm, but now he’d likely be forced to give it up to appease the so called Vileblood Queen. Farren might have sneered if he’d felt it would go unpunished, but he was no fool, so instead he remained silent and awaited the Queen’s decision.