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Hello! I'm LadyRunic! But you knew that...

I love most types of Role Play, but by far my favorites are those that are well thought out and worked with. Especially when you can find a group you can work well with. I love books- So many books. It's a running bet that I will become buried under a pile of said objects one day... I'm a tad busy, and when an Rp really catches my interest I'm inpatient for posts. It's like reading a good book and getting stuck on a cliff hanger.

You can generally expect posts regularly once a week if not more.

I've RP'd for the better part of fourteen years, so I can honestly say I have some experience and I've developed the understanding of what I expect of a partner in a one-on-one or a group. I'm also the sort who will speak up and point out something if it looks off or forms a problem to me. I spent most of a year once stuck in a Voice Chat Rp that was hell on Earth, so I'm straight forward when I need to say something. I expect this in return from my Rpers and DMs. I want to improve my writing and love constructive criticism.

Most Recent Posts

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble


Luckily it seemed the young Queen did not have too far to go. Barely ten paces out of the door and there the Eyrien woman sat. She was looking quite miserable, if Fatima said so herself. And she did. She plopped down with more grace than might be expected from the messy girl and forced the ale into the woman’s hands. “That’s from Mikhail,” she said quite matter of factly. She then handed over the shot. “And that's from me. Now drink up. This is a healer’s order.” Her tone brooked no ability to be turned down.

It was slow seconds later that a hand raised the shot to pale lips and the dark-skinned Eyrien woman drank deeply. Her hair falling back enough to show the tears that streaked down her cheeks. Gasping sharply as the drink burned her throat, Faeril gave a sharp cough then another one as she handed the glass back. “Thank you.” The words were rougher than her usual cold and collected tone. Her hand shook slightly as she accepted the mug. “Both of you, thank you.” For all she had drank the shot at the Healer’s and Queen’s order, Faeril still looked shaken. From within the tavern, sharp voices could be heard. Not quite yelling in their native tongue but rather close to it as an argument went back and forth between the brothers. Denvar seemed to be giving Gennar lecture and the other was defending himself.

Dareen’s eyes flicked up, two dark orbs from underneath her hood and peaking over her raised scarf. None of them seemed to have noticed her yet, and so far Dareen wanted to keep it that way. She’d much rather they take their conversations somewhere else, so she wouldn’t have to eavesdrop on them. Dareen has already peaked far too much into Faeril’s personal affairs as far as she was concerned. Narrowing her eyes she refocused on her sketchbook and drove the charcoal deeper into the page as she hardened the outlines of a mug of ale being held in an undetailed silhouette of a person whose appearance was unimportant. The only important part was that they were having fun. Beer, she thought, was supposed to be fun. She tried to only drink it when she was relaxing, or in a good mood. Too many times she’d seen people self-medicate themselves into some ale sickness Dareen didn’t quite know the medical term for.

When Jandar returned to the inn, it was to the sight of three Eyriens bickering and the rest of the group absent. “What the Hell is going on here?” he growled, discomfited at finding some sort of chaotic and dramatic conflict had appeared to occur while he was absent. From the tidbits the brothers offered him while shouting at each other, he got the gist of the situation. Frowning, lips thin in displeasure, he stalked into the courtyard, where Fatima and Faeril where in the midst of an uncomfortably emotional looking conversation while Dareen and Mikhail were awkwardly lurking at the sides. Approaching the latter two, he asked quietly, “Which of you can explain exactly what happened? The brothers weren’t too clear.”

Mikhail was like that for a bit, simply enjoying the breeze until a familiar voice came from behind, interrupting him and making him put on his hood once more almost as if he had just realized that he was showing his ears and his hair, which could potentially attract a lot of unwanted attention to himself.
The owner of the voice was Jandar, who had just arrived and was quite surprised by the chaos he found going on inside regarding the Eyrien brothers.

"I... knew they wouldn't be..." Mikhail said with a long sigh as he walked towards Jandar while he finished putting on his hood and putting the rest of his hair, which did extend a bit lower than his shoulders inside it. As he got closer to him, only then he realized that Dareen was sitting in the corner with her sketchbook on hands. Mikhail did try giving her a small nod and a discreet wave but he didn't know if she did notice him, after all, she seemed to be really... concentrated in her drawings.

"I don't know much about what was said, since they were discussing in native Eyrien but Gennar said something he really shouldn't have. Faeril was really hurt by it. I tried saying something to her but I'm not really the best for these kind of stuff. Fatima is talking with her at the moment. I recommend you to let the two of them alone for a while." Mikhail continued.

"It may have something to do regarding the boy, Thom I mean." he said, finishing explaining about everything he knew to Jandar.

"And sorry, Dareen, I didn't see you there when I got out. I can find another place to... do nothing I guess, if you wish for some privacy." Mikhail said, looking towards Dareen.

Dareen flinched a bit at having been addressed, not sure if she was noticed or not. She had also been a little lost in her drawing, as had been her intention, but the real world had dragged her back from her little land of parchment and paper. Oh well, no big deal. It was Mikhail, offering to leave to give her privacy in her drawings.

The collection of scarves and folded cloth that was hiding a woman pretending to be a man inside glanced up, Dareen pulling back her hood slightly to make eye contact with Mikhail. She shrugged dismissively and smirked. "Oh, no, it's fine. I just needed to get out of there. You can, uh, sit down in the dirt here. If you'd like." She offered, losing a little steam and chuckled. "I'm just trying to stay out of everyone's hair." She concluded, keeping her voice low.

Mikhail nodded with an understanding smile as Dareen replied to him, offering him a place to sit in the dirt near her. It appeared that, just like himself, Dareen didn't seem to enjoy the current atmosphere going on inside the inn right now between the brothers.

"I will accept your offer then. I hope you don't mind, Jandar." Mikhail replied to Dareen with a smile before he turned to Jandar and sat down on the dirt just where Dareen had indicated.

"I am not exactly... useful in these type of situations. Fatima is much more suited to this. That's why I asked her to go talk to Faeril. The only thing I can do to help right now is getting out of the way. The skills I excell at are... not suited at all for this." Mikhail said with a chuckle as he sat down.

Dareen scoffed good-naturedly as Mikhail explained the situation. It seemed they were both fish out of water. "Yeah..." She responded focusing back on her drawings. There wasn’t too much to say. This kind of social conflict was one Dareen didn’t have the tools to help resolve. It seemed that went for both of them.

Fatima nodded mutely in response to Faeril's thanks. She could hear mere snippets of conversation between the trio across the way. Well, duo. The third was silent. She took a seat on the bench beside Faeril. "Your boys are a bit rough and growly. Need a bit of polishing with a sharp tongue." She spoke in a conspiratorial way, as if she were sharing a joke between friends. "I'm not entirely certain what the conversation was all about but I think I got a bit of it. Is it about Thom leaving?"

The others talking and the sharp sounds, though the latter was muffled by the walls of the inn, were a distant thing to the Black Widow. Her throat burned from the shot and the thin sips she took of the drink Mikhail had brought her soothed it. Hearing a far clearer voice she paused slightly, though her eyes still stared blankly into space. She didn’t want to answer Fatima, but there was hardly a way to dodge it when the entire group had followed after her like a trail of lost ducklings. Her lips quivered in sardonic amusement at the thought. “Yes and no.” She took a long, endless draw from the tankard in her hands. It numbed her slightly, but not enough. Never enough. “Gen does not agree that keeping the boy close is a good idea. He is worried for my safety.” And for her sanity, but she didn’t see a reason to bring the fact that her closest friend thought she was latching onto the miscreant out of some misplaced motherly desire. “A mistake happened that he reminded me of.” Her voice was far from alright or dismissive as she would have liked it. It was bitter, regret-filled, and there was sorrow. Her knuckles turned white as she covered her mouth with a hand feeling her stomach roll as that horrid guilt twisted in her belly. Was that what it had been? A mistake? A mistake to heal a village who needed it desperately when a Queen decided to play with a poison? A mistake to even attempt to give her dying family line a chance? “A horrid, horrid choice and there was no good answer. There was the death of one. Then the death of an entire village. All Healers face it.” And she had chosen the many. The many though it had cost her dearly.

Fatima listened calmly. Faeril was sharing something big with her. The woman was not the sort to share freely so she was not about to interrupt the speech. She folded her hands in her lap, eyes never leaving Faeril. "Mmm, I see," she said after a long pause in which Faeril didn't speak. Fatima did not entirely see, to be perfectly honest. There were a lot of missing puzzle pieces. Couldn't people be more straightforward?

"Could you live with yourself if you'd let the village die? I think we'd be having an entirely different conversation yet intrinsically the same." She shook her head. "That's not what is important right now. I need to make sure you are okay."

The Black Widow didn’t answer as she closed her eyes. Her mouth tightening into an ugly line, as she felt tears run down her cheeks. “I wish I had.” Yet, she knew she had chosen the best of the two choices in the long run. Pragmatic thinking did not ease her weeping though as more tears flowed down her cheeks and her shoulders shook slightly. “I-I will be alright. Time…” Time would at least help her cover the wound that still bled in her soul.

Fatima snorted in a most unlady like fashion. "Time doesn't do shit and you and I both know it. There are some hurts that you can't heal. But can be born more easily when distributed among friends." She reached out and squeezed Faeril's hand. "It's not wrong for you to feel the way you do." Fatima was doing her best to comfort with what vague information she had. Who died? Ah well, not really her business was it?

Fatima’s hand was knocked away, as icy eyes locked onto the Hyallian Queen. The mug was at her feet and spilled, the liquor spreading over the dusty cobbles over the courtyard. ”You mean well, but this is something beyond you, child. Time will not heal this wound, but it will allow me to collect myself to serve in your Court. To end this madness that threatens to consume us all, no matter the cost.” Her voice was chilly and the air about her became cold as the Black Widow turned her anguished face from Fatima. The hand that had knocked away the Queen's, she gripped with her own. The dangerous snake tooth of the widows laying against the dark skin of the Queen. Releasing the hand, she flexed her hand and the delicate poisoned weapon slipped under her fourth finger.

”Pardon me.” The pardon was hardly a question. Turning her head from the Grey Queen in dismissal.

Jandar stood by while Mikhail and Dareen sat, joining them on the sidelines, but keenly observing the conversation between Fatima and Faeril. He almost sprung into action when he noted an obvious moment of tension between the two females, but restrained himself. However, he did unobtrusively inch somewhat closer to them. When Faeril dismissed Fatima, he properly approached his Queen. “My Lady,” he murmured. Though his tone was soft, it carried far enough that the rest of his companions could easily hear him should they choose to do so. “I have met a Priestess here, and she can open a path to Kaeleer through the Dark Gates,” he confessed. His shoulders loosened somewhat as he finally relayed this key bit of information he’d found, and it was apparent that it represented a kernel of hope to him.

Denvar growled as he slipped out the door to the courtyard where he had seen Faeril flee to. Not that he would call that retreat such to her face. The younger brother liked to think he got the sense of the family that Gen generally lacked at the moment. Giving an apologetic look towards Fatima, the Eyrien tried to think of how to phrase an apology. Mother Dark, Gen wasn't going to apologize for a while. The Warlord had his temper up and not without reason, but still! Jandar beat him to it, however, and Denvar found himself grateful for the interruption. If it distracted from the situation, then it was all the better in his mind. Though looking at Faeril and the way she was holding everything at a distance... He flinched. The last thing anyone needed was a Black Widow who was suffering a mortal wound to her spirit. "I don't want to be the Eyrien of bad news, but what's the catch? Last I was around a Dark Gate the Queen of Pruul had them under heavy guard. No one came, no one left. Of course, that was three centuries ago..." He gave an apologetic look to the group. "We didn't want to risk attention, and lost contact with the Hourglass." Shrugged his winged shoulders, he wanted Faeril to take the conversation but the witch seemed lost in the past and the pain. Not even designing to explain that the Hourglass was the Black Widow's coven of witches. Their subtle society that outsiders were usually aware of, or had been at one point, but those same outsiders were careful to remain politely and pointedly oblivious of the coven lest they draw the ire of the witches whose caste were entwined with it.

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble


Gen glared at his brother and would have responded in kind had Fatima not turned her ire upon the man. Turning a hard glare upon the tiny Queen he couldn't look into those matching fierce eyes for long and his gaze switched back to his brother. "I am her escort, her protector, Lady. And I will protect her even if it's from herself." Drawing in a sharp breathe he stood, using the height to boost his argument. It was hardly fair, but he wasn't really in the mood to play fair about this. "As for that particular 'discussion'. I thought it best to head such a delicate thing off as soon as I could. I've been damn well in agreement with that oversized Reaper about the boy. But what you are sticking your delicate nose into is a family matter."

"Brother." Denvar was standing as well now and gave Dareen a sideways look as he moved between her and the Queen. A hand behind his back and in full sight of the mercenary flicking towards the door that Faeril had rushed out of. Giving his card-playing partner an out as he locked tempers with his older brother. "Watch your tone. I'm not disagreeing it's a family matter, but you damn well brought it into the open."

Outside the widow was in the sheltered courtyard sitting heavily on a bench. Her face cradled in her hands, her wings tucked tightly to her back. The wound her had been dealt had been a harsh one. She knew Thom was not the son she had lost when the fever had hit her village. Nothing could replace that boy and, Hell's Fires, that was not what she had been trying to do! She merely was fond of the boy, fond of children in general. Running a hand through her normally tidy locks, she heard the soft steps of Mikhail approach her before the assassin spoke. Was there anything he could do? Hardly. He could not bring her boy back. Nor could he convince her that Gen was wrong in his assumption. Faeril would hate to admit it to herself but she had grown to have some affection for the boy. A dangerous attachment though it was not one that was a replacement for her child, just more of a transference of that longing need she had kept at arm's length for such a child. Something she was soothing by minding the young Thom and Dunny. Taking a shaky breath she shook her head dully and her voice came out as a rasp of its normal cantor. "No.. Maybe... Go get me something stiff to drink, if you would." In truth she did not want the assassin around. He had his own scars and a patient should not see her in this light. Weak, vulnerable, able to be mauled by the happening of the world. Of such simple things such as words.

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble


For all she looked like a ancient Black Widow, the Summer-sky Jewel danced on its chain over the battered gown as the woman gave Jandar a squinted look as if seeing if he was truly a trustworthy young man. Seeming content that he was exactly that to her withered sight, the woman gave a crooked smile. Her teeth worn and aged between cracked lips. "Oh, thank you Lord." Bending enough she scooped up a single delicate looking wooden box in one hand and hobbled down the road. "If you'd be so kind, my home lies a bit outside of town. I'd travel the Winds there but the Craft doesn't come well to someone so old and my sanctuary lies off the traveled Winds. Bit of a blessing if I'm honest." She gave a sharp and good natured cackle. "It's less noisy." She explained though there was a bit of a sadnes in those dark eyes. The boxes and bags that Jandar plucked from the dusty cobbles were a mixture of provisions someone would need a good distance from the town for a bit of time and a few particular items. One bag contained color agents and another carried wax. A smaller bag that was deceptively light held coils of threads that smelled faintly of a scented oils. As they moved down the street, people were careful to give the woman her space, though there was a notable respect in their eyes as they greeted her and pointedly eyed the stranger with her. The Summer-sky witch's replies were cheerful enough, though there was a distinct weariness about her tone. She had been alive for a very long time and recent events had tugged and pulled at her heart as old memories of happiness and loss warred over a lifetime.

"Dammit, it all Prince." The Chaillot native growled in an irritated town as Xandar corrected him, a hand moving to rub the back of his blonde head. "Then come out with that first. I've been thinking more for my wife and myself. Not for an entire village." Sighing the Warlord gave a weak shrug. "Not that I would trust an entire village with even the cleverest boy. The Queen here. Alice? She's decent enough compared to the bitches we had to deal with, though with some goading I could see her suggestions and pouts turning to those furious demands. Especially if it was something that could give her a leg up with the Provincial Queen and make her one of Elizabet's favorites." He warned as the Reaper opened the door to leave. "Prince, do be careful and if I were you, I'd hide those wings at least. I'll ask around to see if there is a place for the boy other than us, but I doubt it. Lauran and I have been keeping to ourselves." Shifting nervously he stared off towards the door his wife had disappeared through. "Tomorrow night, I'll stop by that tavern. I doubt you will stay later than that?"

The youngest of the Eyrien brothers, Denvar, gave Dareen a weak smile as he glanced nervously at the thunderous looking Gen and Faeril. "Hold onto your seat. We're going to be in for some rough weather." He muttered in what could almost be an amused tone. "Call. Really, a raise against my hand?" He said a bit louder, attempting to distract from the storm he felt swirling about the room. As the Ashkevron and Saroth families were so close that they were very near to siblings, it was not odd that an occasional clash of wills would happen. As Gen was Faeril's erstwhile protector those clashes tended to happen a bit more often than either cared to admit when a situation was particularly stressful. Which this wasn't, but the topic was a delicate one that he hoped no one would tread on later with the Black Widow. That would be interesting to explain to their Lady. 'Oh, yes, well you see someone asked a question a bit to far so Faeril broke their mind. Don't worry! She might be able to fix it when she calms down. As for their balls? No, I think those are gone for good." Denvar snorted in amusement, his gold eyes dancing.

"You know we cannot." Gen switched to their native Eyrien tongue, as he tried to force reason through Ashke's thick skull. Why was this woman always so stubborn?!

The said woman was giving him an imperious look that warned of danger as Fatima walked down the stairs. "What we can or cannot do lies within the choices we make. I have made this one."

The innkeeper gave Fatima a knowing smile and nodded easily enough, Dunny watching the scene play out in the common room as he sat on Fatima's heel. "Oh, I know exactly. There's a stall in the market square. You'll want to talk to Rebecca, our little herb woman. She grows them for any witch who might need them. A bit of a warning though, don't mention my name. She's a sweet girl, used to work here, but we had a bit of a falling out when she married her husband. Lord Jeoff of Lady Alice's First Circle. I told her it was a fool's match, but she wouldn't heed me. I don't think they've shared a house in nearly half a year with how busy he is sorting out things for Lady Alice."

"It's a fool's one!" The raised Eyrien voice cut through the conversation as Gennar gave a glaring snarl at the witch. Still speaking in their native tongue. "You know if the lad stays with us then he's as good as dead. We all risk it doing what we are. But you would be as selfish as to bring a child into that?!"

The snap as Faeril flipped her wings cut the Warlord off from replying as her own words cut the airs like his warblade. "I am not so selfish, but he we leave him here there will be death in time. I can and will protect him Gennar Saroth. Do you doubt me?!"

The Warlord was standing and glaring at the Black Widow now, their hurled Eyrien words perhaps not understandable to others but the vicious tones a clear indication that what was being said was not kind. "I doubt you when you can't look after yourself. You will stretch yourself too thin and leave the boy exposed to danger. We went through this once, he is of the short lived races. You will watch him die. He is not your son, Faeril."

"Gennar!" Denvar sat up straight and stared in horror at the stricken face of Faeril as though the large man had slapped her. "That's too far!" Helpless he watched the witch turn and stalk from the room to the small courtyard that held enough room for a buggy and two stabled horses, not that they had that. Though they had managed to fit the carriage in there. "Fuck. Gen, you went too damn far."

The larger Eryrien sat down heavily as he stared glumly at the cards. "She needed to hear it."

"Still... Fuck."

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble


Jandar would find the town as it had been, the streets held that unkept look of town that wasn't at it's most prosperous. The people hurrying about didn't give the Dhemlan another look. He was just another refugee of so many fleeing west to escape the dark, twisted power in the east. Something that was so common these days as people sought passage to Chaillot, or the even less known passage to Kaeleer, to avoid and start anew. The air of important business stopped the Warlord from being stopped as he moved about the seaside town. The owners of the stalls he stopped at showing him their wares and rarely offering idle chatter as they normally would have. They were not uncourteous, but rather maintained a distance between themselves and the customer. As though they weren't sure to classify him as one of the 'blue-blooded' Aristocrates or as someone more base born. Yet even as he moved about, Jandar could hear the whispers and snippets of conversations floating about the town.

"The Queens to the East are growing more greedy and want more of our crops and the haul we get from the sea. They'll pay out the nose for it you know." A witch minding a stall of woven baskets and making still more of them was conversing casually with a man who was rearranging his wares as though in boredom.

"They will only pay if they can't take it, and that gold can go to buying them more than mere food." Came the pessimistic counter from a weary voice. "Which will mean war. Their harvests are failing because their Queens don't give back to the land."

"And ours does?" The woman hissed back in more of an undertone. "Lady Alice only wishes to look pretty and play the darling of the town. If we need to tighten our belts-"

The burly man gave the witch a sharp look. "Careful, Lorrie. That's near enough to treason. Lady Alice gives back to the sea and we get our harvest. May not be as much as we'd like but we're not starving. If she wants to play the darling to keep the First Circle loyal to her, then I'll let her. Where's the harm?" The woman, Lorrie, looked utterly disgusted but offered no protest as two men walked by. They were handsome fellows and wore swords as openly as their Jewels. A Sapphire and Opal respectively. Guards, Jandar would recognize. Guards on patrol about the town. Though they were ready for trouble, they seemed easy with the people. They felt nearly 'clean' in comparison to the men who had attacked Faeril at her eyrie only less than half a month ago. They were just about matching heights with sun-kissed hair and one giving Jandar a look over with sparkling blue eyes. It was a humored look, but the steel behind it promised trouble if Jandar started it. But neither stopped as they continued on their patrol path, not finding the man much a threat.

It was scant seconds later, when a far smaller form nearly collided with the Warlord. Her arms had been laden with packages that went skittering over the flagstoned marketplace as the elderly witch gave Jandar an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, boy. Should have been watching where I was going especially at this time of day." Dressed in a homely gown that was worn and patched and a headcloth that held back a mass of hair that was half fizz, and another half tangles, the woman looked like some demented Black Widow out of the stories parents would tell their children. The only thing she was missing was the warts. For her nose was a hooked beak and her back was bent with the weight of years. A Summer-sky Jewel rested on her pendent chain, a lighter Jewel. But there was a twinge of pride in the woman that didn't belong to her Jewel. Not seeming to notice the others that swerved about her, the old woman bent to collect the eight or so boxes that had gone scattering about.

The tiny woman kept herself out of the business of her husband and it was something Gerald was thankful for. If she knew something it would put her at risk, as if she was not already with him living with her. If the Queen found out he had once been a rogue, things could go rough for the younger man. Let alone the witch who harbored him, no matter if she was his wife or not. The fact she was would probably make things worse on her. Running a hand over his face, the memories that haunted him on those bad nights coming back as Xandar talked making him look haggard. "A boy-? That you want to see if we can take in?" He considered what his one-time leader was asking of him. Lauran was rather fond of children though they both hesitated at conceiving another one after the failed pregnancy. An unfortunately common thing if the witch worked her Craft or the child just didn't form right. It was something that even the largest of families could admit a close brush with at least. "Lauran, my wife, wouldn't mind, but-" He seemed to search for the right words and found none. "It's not exactly free of strife and there is danger even here Prince Xandar. The Queen is decent enough, but I wouldn't trust any Queen after what we've seen." There was bitterness there and it was understandable. How many good men, friends, had they both seen killed? Tortured? Taken and disappeared in the dark of the night or the middle of the day? And when those men turned back up how many were alive and whole? Yet there was a debt owed and Gerald could hardly refuse his commander. "But- If you think it's best, we could take him on. One more mouth won't hurt us, so long as he's clever enough to not bring trouble down on us all." He wasn't comfortable with it, that was obvious, but inviting an unknown into your home during these times was a dangerous risk. One that Gerald worried about.

Faeril had watched Fatima and Thom lower the keg, the Queen disappearing back down the rickety stairs while the boy looked eagerly between the two. Wanting some chore to aid them, the Black Widow thought with an amused smile. As Mikhail offered to join her downstairs, the witch sighed and inclined her dark head. "I shall join the others with you, but first..." She made a slight motion, the keg's tap opening as it filled a cup Faeril had called into being from that place where the Blood could store things. Scattering a few herbs from a delicate bag she vanished, the witch of the Hourglass Coven let a delicate tongue of witchfire brew the mixture together. "It will help the headaches, and ease the heart." She advised, all too aware of the boy hovering in the doorway and eagerly listening to every word like the youth did when they were trying to not be obvious about it. The Dea Al Mon's words coming back to her. Yes, he was right. The boy was bright and clever. Smarter than most children his age, but she could understand why. Left alone, especially in these troubled times? It was grow up quickly or die. Which he was not going to do. The train of thought had caused the witchfire to flare around the goblet. Dismissing the flames, she carefully floated the warmed glass over to Mikhail.

"Boy, why don't you help me down the stairs? I still am feeling a bit off-balance, shall we say?" It was hardly a request, and it was never one that Faeril would normally make as she swept by Mikhail with a firm look in his direction. Her stride making clear note that she did not, in fact, need the aid. But still, Thom offered his arm with the awkward courtesy of someone learning the proper manners and aided the Black Widow down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, she shooed the boy back up the stairs to harry Mikhail with a flip of a wing. Watching him race up the stair with an odd fondness in her eyes.

A fondness which was noted by Gen. His hand laying his cards on the table as he watched his longtime friend. "Fold." He muttered, defeat in his voice. Though if it was about the game or what he had hoped was not, he couldn't say. Muttering a Eyrien curse, that he didn't try to hide, he arched a disapproving brow as Faeril glanced in his direction with a challenging fire in those eyes. One he could do without seeing, Gen thought bitterly. She just had to grow attached to the boy. Children were a weak spot of Faeril's and he had been aware she had taken the boy, figuratively, under her wing. But this? Running a hand over his fave he picked up his stein of beer and downed it in a few hearty gulps. "No." His voice was a ponderous boulder dropped in the middle of the table.

"I did not ask you anything, Gennar." The Black Widow responded coldly as she gave Fatima and Dareen a respectful nod. "In fact, I said nothing at all." Gen merely gave her a disapproving look.
@Zoey Boey Get some sleep, you can always bug the crap out of me at any time. Same with Faeril.
@Zoey Boey No worries, and Faeril is free to chat to, if you want to interrupt her like we discussed last week.

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble


The small woman seemed a bit shocked as Xandar identified himself as the 'Reaper'. The name belonged to a dangerous Eyrien warrior who was the second darkest Jewel in the Realm that anyone knew of. It wasn't exactly pleasant that her husband's past was coming back to stalk their doorstep so openly, but Lauran could hardly fault Gerald for that. She had met the Warlord when he had come into the small town, where she was working as a general store clerk, looking for supplies for his band of rogues. It wasn't like those foolish little stories some people wrote where the dashing rogue risked life and limb for the woman who captured his heart. If it had, Lauran would be the first to admit she would have wanted no part in it. Such naive romance was an irritation to her. Instead, they had grown close in their common hatred of the local Queen and she cut him a hefty discount of the goods he paid for. It had been a friendship that had grown to be more, so when Lauran had found herself pregnant with Gerald's child... It had only made sense they slip away from the rogues and Queens to a quiet place where they could keep their head down.

Which had worked, for the most part, they had moved several times when too many questions were asked and finally come to Winton. Here, nothing was asked and the less said the better. Oh, there were honest friendship and Lauran found her neighbors pleasant. Gerald worked on his shops and Lauran did a bit of weaving. It wasn't a rich life, but a happy enough one. Til this great big menace turned up at her doorstep. "Come inside, quickly now." Lest the neighbors see and ask more questions that Lauran cared to answer at the moment. "He's in his shop- Just don't-!" The witch fussed and huffed as she shut the door quickly behind the Eyrien. "Just stay here." She hustled down the hall and through a door.

Hushed voices could be heard before a small, wiry fellow slipped from the room Lauran had entered. His clothing was stained and a fine layer of sawdust covered his hands and shoes leaving a trail which the witch gave a murderous look at. "Xandar..." Gerald's voice was a raspy thing, something the Eyrien Warrior would be well aware as to why. Captured by a group belonging to a lower circle of guards in a Queen's Court, Gerald had been viciously whipped. His back a mass of scars to show his wounds, and his throat still holding it's own whisper of horror from his screams. Even, if he had been a fighter and a rogue... It had shamed Gerald that he had screamed so, that he had begged, and that was another factor of why he had left the rogue bands. Feeling as though he was too weak to continue the fight with them. "What can I do for you, Prince? I had not thought you to come to such a small village?" His voice had the accent of Chaillot, the Territory of his birth and there was a cultured way about his words that spoke of a higher birth than he would ever admit.

Elsewhere, Faeril gave Mikhail a skeptical look. "I believe those are traits that apply to all boys or any of that gender of any age." She pointed out with a fair bit of gentle amusement, something that would not have been common in the Healer-Black Widow before. Gently rolling up the tangled web, she slit it back in the protective tube and studied the door where the boy had been with a critical eye and almost fond smile. "And your memories must return, even if you do not wish them to. If I miss even the smallest sliver it could start your headaches again and it would be harder to correct. I would prefer to do things right the first time." Any other time those words would be added with knife sharpness, but now they were a soothing reminder and a gentle denial of what Mikhail desired. Patting the Dea Al Mon's shoulder she sighed almost forlornly. A wanting desire in her as she slid the tube into a small trunk that Gen and Denvar had brought up, with Thom playing the ever 'helpful' watchman.

"A raise, a call." Gen mumbled dry amusement as he watched Bellinar snarled and laid his hand down. It was his brother's third fold in five games and the aforementioned Eyrien stood up and walked to the bar. Helping Thom get a better grip on the keg the innkeep had given the boy before paying for a tankard himself. Gen chuckled and raised a brow at Denvar. "Will you be folding as well, or do something interesting?" Gen taunted Denvar. Denvar, who merely shrugged and slid two chips into the pot, shuffling his cards about in his hands. Gen huffed a snort of slight annoyance. It wouldn't have been so bad, but Denvar had a killer poker face when he wanted one. "Call. Heard you all ran into trouble coming into town?" He had two eights and two threes. It probably was a bad idea, but holding a jack as well promised he could possibly get something. Winking at Fatima, he gestured towards the boy tottering with the keg up the stairs to where Faeril and Mikhail were. "Wonder if Faeril will let the lad go." He wondered more to himself as he gave a amused sigh. "She likes children, not that she'll admit it."

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble


The seaside town of Winton was a small and vibrant spot that was the crossing between the mainland and the island Territory of Chaillot, a large island territory known for its quiet life. Winton was the stop several made if they didn't bypass it entirely, to continue onto Chaillot. Any trouble that followed Fatima and her fledging group hadn't found its way to the winding cobbled streets or the old houses of the village that looked as though they had stood there for a century. Gossip was thick and fast in such a place, but it seemed that few people visited Winton, preferring the larger town of the Provincial Queen or the Territory of Chaillot. In fact, the only sign at all of the corruption that was plaguing those in power throughout the Realm had been Dunny's insistent refusal that this place was 'good' in any measure of the word. Even Thom with all his cajoling and assurances could not convince the dusty Sceltie that he would be fine. In fact, the small Sceltie had seemed to only make up his mind that going within this town was feasible if he was walking on his Queen's heels. It had endeared the Hyallian woman to a pleasant, grandmotherly looking woman who ran an inn close to the edge of town which Denvar had found and discreetly arranged rooms for their group, though none of them would be able to luxuriate in privacy. The small inn was clean if a bit small, of weathered and worn stone on the outside and soft paneling wood within. The sort of thing for someone passing through and not expecting to stay for a while, which was true enough for the group.

As they had arrived at Winton, Fatima would notice the dry looking earth. The way people hurried about slightly as though to remain out of the public's eyes, the streets that were not swept as though to discourage people from dallying about in them. Shops and stalls that were open kept a close eye on people who came to look at wares that were of decent make but from a few exchange that Fatima could note often had the seller producing something from beneath the stall that looked of far better make. These people were not browbeaten, but there was a wariness to them. One which their aged hostess had seemed impartial to when she had gleefully informed her guests of where their rooms were. In truth, it looked rather similar to Fatima's village back in Hyall save for the incessant noise of the gulls above and the view of the endless blue sea.

A group of well dressed young woman cavorting around a center woman with pale blonde hair and bright blue eyes who was laughing gaily with them as they sat in the low-wall garden of a restaurant as the group has passed would also attract the eye. Their dresses were perhaps a bit out of date, but the fabric and cut were of masterful work. Their jewelry was intricate and varied through the group, with the blonde in a gown of delicate magenta wearing pearls that were a delicate touch to her fine doll-like features. From her there was an utter draw of Queen, in in the sense to pull people to serve her but that is what she in fact was. So it was a slight relief to Thom that the Eyriens in the group had agreed to approach from another direction and had done so sooner. Not wanting to draw attention necessarily to Fatima. As the blond woman looked up sharply, her blue eyes flashed with something like a challenge and slight fear as she seemed to search for the Queen she too sensed before something one of her companions said forced her to return her attentions to the Aristo women about her. The two men with the group were a fair bit older, and looked uttered bored and entrapped as they charmed and played the gentlemen to the ladies about them.

That narrow call had been something of a worry, but Faeril was in a far more worrisome mood. It had been a solid week of careful travel and scouting to see if the village was safe to approach. Even with riding the Winds, there was a risk that while landing on a landing web it could force a confrontation that would not do their little group any good, and landing outside of a landing web would be nothing short of dangerous. Something that her boys were against risking for the Queen they were pinning their hopes on and their good friend. Faeril herself had other reasons to be against the danger... She had regained enough of her strength to no longer need constant rest or supervision. Not that anyone really listened to her on the latter. While she could not perform the more powerful Craft spells she knew, she could do the basic things without tiring herself out to foolish levels and it had given her enough strength to work on healing Mikhail a bit more. Which is why the two of them, three if you counted the boy, were in her room that she shared with Fatima. Where her boys and Fatima's men could keep watch over them.

Plucking her hands from the tangled web of her Craft, she looked at her runner and conscripted errand boy and raised a skeptical brow. He had been set upon her as a watcher by her three 'brothers', and for once Faeril had not argued. "Why don't you go beg some ale from the innkeeper for the Prince, boy?" She had never called the boy by his name but the young, androgenous mix-blood looked utterly delighted by the thought of helping and was out the door before she could add anything to her order. Giving a sharp huff of satisfied amusement, Faeril wiped away the sweat from her brow with a cloth. "Now if only the rest of you can jump like that." She scolded the male. This was the first chance for any healing of his poorly damaged mind she had been able to do since that first time in her eyrie. The web she had first used to work on him in her lap was a bit more complex than it had been and the strands that had gathered those so fragile and broken pieces now cradled them while the Black Widow carefully fitted them together. Sorting the shape the chalice of the man's mind while she gathered the strength to more strongly stitch them together. The fleeting memory of those images she had seen, that face that had brought joy and loss. A critical need to protect that wonderful woman, and the pain that had come of it. She had pieced together the softer memories. The pieces that were larger and would be harder to fight. The honest joy of a family, a clan, in the thick forest of which the Dea Al Mon called home. The time spent training under instructors and the praise and encouragement that had been given by that all-important woman. The fact that this mysterious woman had always been there and was always to be there. The Black Widow had felt the jagged sense of loss awoken by the small web that secretly siphoned a bit of Mikhail's strength away to make her own soft stitches hold and strengthen their grip. It tore at the Healer within her and her own aching loss that the boy reminded her so much of. Wiping her eyes slightly at the burning sensation in them, she set about rolling up the web. It would do her no good to push herself to the breaking point again, now more than ever. "It will not be an easy thing, this healing. With our pace, I can make sure it will be a clean heal then erase them to a far better degree." There was still a vibrant growl at the sister of the Hourglass who had done such sloppy work upon the assassin. Abysmal she would call it at best. Negligence. "But nothing to do with the mind comes easily, especially..." With such a botched spell cast in the first place! Shaking her head, she gave Mikhail a reassuring smile that seemed far too understanding. Mikhail would see a deep sorrow in those cold blue eyes, and a certain decision that seemed to have been made without the woman being aware she had made it when she looked back up as the young pale haired lad hesitated in the door with large hesitant eyes.

"Innkeep says it'll be two silver marks for a small keg-" The lad started nervously, looking a bit bashful at having to return empty-handed. Only to be met with skeptical and slightly bemused look for the cold woman.

"And if you had waited a second, I would have given you these." A slender hand gestured, calling in five silver marks, which floated over to the startled and slightly shocked lad. "Now go on, boy." The woman chided as Thom darted off pounding down the stairs to the main floor a second time like the demon-dead were on his heels and past the three brothers who were enthralled in a game of cards- poker, to be precise- which they had invited the rest of their company too.

On the other side of the town, on the outskirts, a small house sat wedged between its neighbors. The large Eyrien that graced the front door had drawn strange looks from the neighbors, but they were not the sort to ask questions. The building itself showed the signs of tired times, having knocked on the door Xandar now was face to face with a tiny female who was perhaps a quarter of his height and looking up at the massive Eyrien in a mixture of terror and awe. "Yes?" Though small, her voice spoke of a maturity that wasn't readily apparent. Lauran was indeed in her majority but her size had left her at a severe disadvantage with people assuming otherwise. So place a massive warrior from a race known for violence on the doorstep of her and her husband's house and things were bound to be a bit tense. "How can I help you-?" Her mousy brown hair and matching eyes were behind a pair of round spectacles as she narrowed her gaze up at the large man in suspicion as she blocked the way into her domain with a stubbornness that did not belong to an Opal Jeweled witch.
Adaahna Vanil & Mor'gann Arnhar

Location: Mandalore, Keldabe city, Alley

Mor’gann studied the woman as she tasted the word ‘shaman’. It was an odd thing this strange language of the traders, but she had heard odder in this crazy market. As the boy behind the Shaman raised his hands palm up, she gave a harsh chuckle. A sneer at the foolish notion that she couldn’t quite help as the boy looked ridiculous. Boy, young man. He was old enough to have fathered some whelps of his own. Though there seemed a lack of need on that front. She could probably take out the lad with a solid kick. The woman, however, was another matter. As she studied the alley about them Mor’gann’s thoughts picked out the words she knew and considered them carefully. It would be best to pretend to understand very little and let Adaahna do as much of the talking as possible. To reveal her hand would be offering something Mor’gann was not sure she wanted to offer.

If she got the words right it seemed that the woman wanted them to go with her. There was trouble stirring, but it was something Mor’gann was uncertain would turn in their favor. But there was the fact this woman a Shaman, which was a dangerous thing indeed. As Varina moved towards the two, the darker and younger woman stepped up laying a hand on Adaahna’s shoulder as she stepped in front of her guide. The older Je’di-Shaman spoke with authority, which made the younger Shaman duck her head slightly as she started to bow before remembering herself. Stiffening her spine, the dark young woman looked sideways towards Adaahna. [color=OIive]”Skull-ar?”[/color] She pronounced awkwardly, her yellow eyes narrowing dangerously on Varina. How did she have someone who knew the language of Mor’gann’s people? As far as she could tell, her language was unknown to these strangers. So that if someone knew it… But no one had left the village ever through one of the Traders. It was an alien thought to her people. But if she had thought of it… Could not another have? It was possible, not likely but possible.

The Togruta stood stock still, watching Varina cautiously for a moment before straightening her posture up and easing up a little at her companion’s hand on her shoulder, tilting her head to her Mor without taking her eyes off of the jedi.. “Scholar.. Story tellers, too much time to think and not work.” She whispered a quick explanation out before gesturing with a head motion to the woman opposite them, letting off a half-smirk to convince herself of her own confidence more than anybody else. Eyeing the boy that seemed to be the junior in their pairing before dismissing him as an opponent, surely if he had the authority to deal with them this force witch wouldn’t be the one doing the talking. ” If we come, you won’t coerce us with witchcraft? Change our minds? You’ll listen to our tale?”

”Skull’ar.” Mor’gann repeat slowly, committing the word to memory as was standard of any Shaman of her clan. Perhaps it was different out here, but shamans were the keepers of history in the clans. Well, outside of what was commonly passed down through word of mouth. An oral tradition that Mor’gann would gleefully call less than accurate. The old saying of the victor shaped the word was one she fully believed shaved away vital bits of information from the history of Dxun. Information that otherwise could help their prosperity if the people were not so stubborn as to ignore it. ”Change our thoughts?” Bristling slightly, Mor’gann gave Varina a sharp look. That was a dangerous thing, there were the odd story of Shamans meddling in the minds of people but it was an ancient legend told to the children to keep them obeying their elders or be handed over to the shamans. If this was possible… Could she stop it? Prevent it with her own powers as a shaman? Deciding that it was risk they should take to meet with the Storyteller or ‘Skull’ar’ she nodded slow. Tapping her chest sharply to indicate herself to the Togruta she nodded toward the strange woman and overly eager boy. ”Shaman.” She stated softly, she had picked up that Adaahna disapproved of shamans, but it was a risk Mor’gann would take. ” Shaman Mor’gann.” She clarified giving the new-come red woman a pointed look that dared her to challenge her right to that rank.

Adaahna’s sharp nail moving to scratch the bridge of her nose as the end of her spear is tipped back up to the sky, she glances sidelong at Mor again. Trying to figure out whether she should’ve known her a shaman, she definitely seemed the thinking type in retrospect, though at the time Adaahna had thought her just enamored with her mastery of tales and amusement. Pouting a little at the thought that her tales weren’t enjoyed, her focus turns back to the Jedi. “ Terms? Guarantees of safety? You won’t force this shaman to become a force witch?

The dark-haired young woman looked bemused as her guide as she turned a list of near demands of the Je’di force vitch. Not that they were unreasonable, but that the concern for her was a curious thing. Perhaps Adaahna thought she would be useful later on and wish to keep her about, perhaps something more nefarious. Either way, it was a strange thing for the Dxun native. Though she wasn’t sure exactly what was said she did get the gist of it. A worry that she would be forced to become a Shaman for this woman’s tribe. Silly woman, a tribe only needed a certain number of shamans and seeing the boy was her apprentice? This red-skinned Je’di hardly needed another. ”Not keep.” She stated firmly to Adaahna. They could not keep her nor did they need to. ”We go. Answers trade. Stories trade.” Which seemed a reasonable thing and a fair trade would build goodwill. Perhaps enough to compensate for the disturbance the smuggler had caused.

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

The Eyrien Warlord didn't pry as an array of feelings flashed crossed Mikhail's face. Gen had worked with Faeril for long enough to know when not to pry and when a Black Widow set about on her task piecing together some facet of the Blood's mind? It was best not to ask. Everyone had a right to their privacy, especially in their own minds, and when you were getting that healed... The Green Jeweled man nodded and turned away after Mikhail took the healing web. "Don't need to explain yourself to me." The grunt was gruff and brusque. In truth, Gennar didn't want Mikhail to explain. Even if he was one of Faeril's oldest and dearest friends, there were things he would rather be left in ignorance of considering his friend's Craft. "I'm merely passing on Lady Ashkevron's orders."

Meanwhile across the camp, Thom was sitting on a trunk within the sight of the fire but far enough to be out of reach of Bellinar and Denvar who both hovered over the food that Xandar had been cooking. The former being especially glad to be spared the task. Though both had been rather bemused at Xandar's choice of dress. Now Denvar kept a watch out of the corner of his eye on the boy, unaware of the gaze that came from above. The Black Widow leaned in the frame of the doorway, sitting on the cold stone as her wings wrapped about her in her exhaustion. Another boy. Another child caught up in the cruelty of war and torment that the twisted bitches unleashed on the land. Faeril's fingers laced through her gown and she felt the snake-tooth slide from its channel. It would be so easy to take care of the bitch Queen in the town. To just overwhelm the harlot. But the Lady Ashkevron did not have that power at the moment. Her reserves were just that reserves to be used in the service of the Queen she hoped would guide them to a new future. But at what cost? Could she let the boy and the Kindred Sceltie die for their cause?

Her hand pressed against her stomach as her hunger snarled. She should have gone down and eaten, but even moving this far had been hard. Waking up Fatima? Difficult. Her body was tired and needed the sleep she had deprived it of for so many weeks, now she was paying for it and overstretching her strength. Overreaching herself was an unfortunate habit her kin seemed to find themselves in. Watching the pale-haired boy, the Eyrien woman sighed with a troubled expression. What would the Queen decide in the interest of the boy? Could she live with the choice if it was death? The hand at her stomach pressed harder as an ugly snarl crossed her face. Of course, she could not. The only question then would be what she would do....?
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