LadyRunic

Blood's Jewels (High Casual Fantasy Revolution)

---

---

---

---

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

---

---

In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

Counter of Days: 5 days

---

Xandar had dozed off for the majority of the spell, resting a bit and letting his mind wander. However, he was still keeping aware of his surroundings, making sure the remaining viper rats weren’t slowly planning their demise. It had been a while since he had to protect people, since he had been living on his own for so long. But, even more different, he was trying to protect people who didn’t want to be protected. Trying to save people who didn’t want saving. It was a careful balance, and he had to realize that his comrades would have to learn from their own experiences and not have their hand held the whole way. Xandar yawned and shook his head, looking at the witch from behind his sight shield. “Yes, but it only takes one time, Widow. There are things out their far stronger than you, and even I, unfortunately. There’s no harm in the safety of numbers.” Xandar picked his head up, getting a sense of a number of people making their way towards them. They didn’t seem like anything terrifying, but there was a good amount of them. Who would be out here in a place like this? ‘Well, it seems we have company again. However, we should be expecting quite a few this time’

Faeril looked annoyed as the leathery membranes of her wings rustled as she dismissed his comment slightly. Oh, she knew it to be true. She just didn't want to admit it, especially to this arrogant warrior. Warlord Princes were notoriously hard to live with when they were right and you let them know you knew it. So it was with some thankful glee that she heard the people Xandar had been the first to notice. "Oh, wonderful. Why do you attract trouble like a light draws moths?" She complained on their shared mental link. Moving to a window as she peered down into the dusty street. It seemed there were about five tough-looking men. What startled her however was their lack of a Jewel. "Landens... Why would they come out here?" The non-Blood, or Landens, lacked the psychic powers of others of their race. Living a simpler life governed by the Blood for better or worse. In the recent years the relationship between the two groups had broken down in Terreille to nearly nonexistence. Pressing tightly into the shadows she listened as they quietly talked. Speaking of open rebellion against the Queen of Shalador. Their desperation peaking as it had before. Soon it would be followed by fields watered with their blood.

”I don’t know. Maybe you should ask yourself that, Miss Trouble.” Xanadar teased, loving to make his Black Widow companion flustered, trying to work his way into that cold, iron heart of hers. If there was a challenge, Warlord Princes loved to come up to the occasion. He moved the sight shield over the window so they would be hidden, looking at them. He summoned his bow, pulling the string back and ready to summon an arrow. ”Just give me the word and we can have five dead Landens on the side of the road.”

"Why are you so quick to kill everything?" Faeril snipped, pushing the bow down. "There are only five of them and Landens. They are hardly a threat!" She glowered at Xandar giving a mental grumble about how she did not find trouble, trouble just had a habit of happening.

”I don’t know, because we are Rogue for the most part and everything is trying to kill us? Call me paranoid, but most people we meet don’t just want to have tea.” Xandar sighed as he vanished his bow, crossing his arms. If they were spies for the Queen it would certainly not be wise to let them live, but as they are they are harmless. ”What do you suppose we do then? I don’t want them knowing we’re here in case they can’t keep their mouths shut.”

"They are speaking of rebellion." The Black Widow pointed out, patting the brute on the arm in a patronizing way. "Thus they can be useful. Don't worry you giant buffoon, you can kill everyone later and take all the plunder." She crooned mentally, looking smug.

”That’s a death sentence, even if they think they’re all alone. Either they have no sense, or they’re up to something. Xandar playfully shoved Faeril, seeing her smug looking face and wanting to wipe it right off of her. [color=crimson][i]”If you want to talk to them, be my guest. But if I sense a hint of malicious intent? They’re as good as dead.”[i][/color]

Blinking as she was shoved slightly, Faeril grew annoyed as he became protective. "You do not have to kill everyone who breathes wrongly in my direction." She huffed.

”I’m looking out for everyone, Faeril. Not just you. If you want to talk? Be my guest, you can surely handle yourself. I’ll just mind my own business then.” Xandar breathed out sharply, walking to the door and holding it open. ”Be my guest.”

The Black Widow stared at the man as he held the door open, her mouth a tight line as she narrowed her eyes. The landens below were convinced they were alone still. Oblivious to their watchers for better or worse. If the Landens were discussing a rebellion then they were indeed desperate and the Blood in Terreille were in far more danger than anyone cared to admit. Not only were they being torn apart by the Queens but by the people they tended. For while the Blood had the power of their Jewels, the Landens had numbers. No matter how strong a Queen and her Court there would be a vicious fight if the Landens uprising became widespread. It would be a uprising that saw no innocents. Sighing Faeril closed her wings and walked towards the door, laying a hand on Xandar's arm. A familiar touch. An attempt to comfort the Warlord Prince. "We cannot allow them to rebel. It will spread and innocents will die. You and I both know the danger the landens present." She whispered softly, passing by him and out the door.

The five landens were of the stock found by the mountain. Miners once, or perhaps loggers. One could very well hazard they had been forced out of their homes by Eyrien warriors and their increasing taxes. They were talking of rebellion indeed, but in an abstract way that hinted they had little support in the nearby settlement. A small comfort, but it was one best headed off. "That would be unwise, and you well know it." Faeril spoke carefully as she turned the corner, startling the group. Their clothes, she noted, were poor and mostly patches. Their weapons were their fists and what they might find laying about. A group of five against a witch of her caliber? They were no match. Yet if they did attack, would the Reaper seek their lives? Faeril rather hoped not. They were fools if they were so rash, and young fools at that. She doubted even one of them had seen the quarter of a century.

"Witch." Spat one with a beard, making a sign of some superstitious nonsense to ward off evil. "I tol' ye we ought to go somewhere we could set a guard." He snarked to another who hand hands that looked like he slung rocks for fun. The giant merely glowered at the intruding witch, as if it was her fault they couldn't see a mouse if they stepped on it! "Well what do we do?" Asked a third, a wiry fellow who looked as though he had consumed some sort of drug. He most likely had, Faeril reconsidered, his hands were twitching and there was a wild look in his eyes she didn't like. "We can't just l-let her leave. Tell t-the Queen B-bitch." The jittery one seemed quite certain of this, and the others seemed to be considering it as well.

"As wise as that may be. I'd advise against it." Faeril advised in an icy tone. "I am no friend to the Queen Bitch. Nor would she take kindly to you planning a half-thought rebellion that would only seen your sons in chains and your daughters broken in homes where they would need care all their days. Your wives and mothers put to the sword. Your farms and fields sown with ash and bones." Her pale blue eyes flashed with ice as she spread her wings. The landens cowering back in slight fear.

"No friend to the Queen? Then what stops us from claiming your lying about that and handing you over for some reward? Not wise to be slinging shit about." Sneered the bearded on who had spat at Faeril's appearance. "The fact you are only five." Growled Faeril. "And if it is 'shit' I speak then look to those of yours who are taken to the Queen even for 'reward'. How do they return?" This caused the group to shift uncomfortably answering Faeril's bluff. It appeared even a 'reward' was an edged sword with the current Queen. Yet as it was, they were at a stalemate. The landens were unsure if they could trust this Eyrien woman and the Eyrien woman was not likely to turn her back and depart the landens who might just speak to the Queen and risk that reward.

---

---

Elsewhere in Eldra ,Shalador

---

The bookstore's keeper was quick to retreat as the Warlord snarled at him. It seemed this Lady was a bit eccentric, though Saetan with an amused twist to his lips as he scowled into the dusty air. He never did like the eccentric ones. They were sometimes decent in their own way, yet they were always the same as the others in the fact they wanted their own desires met with as little payment as was possible. Tapping his fingers on the wall softly, he watched the shopkeeper busy himself with his counter. Polishing it lest it offend the woman who was trespassing into this little haven Saetan had found. Straightening his suit, the man ran his hand through his dark hair giving it a touselled appearance. Well, if he was going to need to play cover to get the woman out of the bookstore and away from these people... So be it, but he wasn't going to like it. Turning the corner, her attached a seductive smile to his lips that didn't quite hide the predatory smile he felt was there. His eyes were colder than the deepest of winters as he walked down the row on soft feet. He would charm this woman off her feet and into a grave nobody would find. And he would like it. Turning the corner, he paused to lounge against the shelves. A rakish poise as he examined the cousins. The Warlord had the dark skin and hair of long-lived race, but there was something a little bit off that made the golden eyes narrow and Saetan's interest prick to a deadly point. There was something just off enough, he couldn't call this one Hyallian though the posture and the behavior was of those courts. The subtle spell that wove through the air was entangled in this man so subtly, Saetan was forced to admire the Craftsmanship of a caster who knew their work.

But the woman had knocked him off his feet.

The spell that wove about the man subtly wove about her in great chains of power. The Black Jeweled Warlord Prince was surprised that she didn't feel the weight of them. The sweet alluring scent of her though, it called to him and he found he didn't want to deny it. He! The most sought after man in all the Realms was staring at a hideous old crone who was no doubt a Queen. A Hyallian Queen. One of the ones he hated the most. The wood under his hand groaned and cracked. Splinters falling the floor as he stared at the two with a deadly glower. Narrowing his eyes he saw the flicker of illusion about the woman. Those heavy chains of spells seemed perhaps not so thick as he thought them.

"What a strange thing to find a flower of Hyall in this horrid place." The man purred in a voice that would make the smoothness of silk seem like the coarsest of sand. Moving forward with a predator's grace, he took one of Fatima's hands in his own. Needing to feel her, to smell her. To rip out her throat even as he wanted to wrap her in his power and carry her away from here and left her cousin to the motes of dust after he had burned the man inside out with wytchfire. Kissing the weathered skin, he smelt the scent of her and bared his teeth in a smile that was a snake's. "I cannot fathom never meeting a woman of your like before." He praised. Yes, he would find out where she had hidden away while working out the spells that would get rid of her little guard and expose what spell was bound about him. It set Saetan's teeth on edge to play this game, but he needed to know. "Perhaps you could dismiss the boy. I doubt he will be of much amusement." He could track down the bastard later and deal with him.

Meanwhile, Dareen would find herself led on a merry chase through the alley, only to find a brick wall. A small cap lay on the ground, dusty and well patched. A figure just leaping from the tall wall to the other side, their pale blonde hair bright in the dark of the alley. They had not slowed nor stopped during Dareen's shouts nor pursuit. It was hardly a wise thing to do when someone was shouting and you weren't exactly strong nor innocent of a crime.

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

Mor'gann Arnhar & Adaahna Vanil

Location: Mandalore, Keldabe city, Cantina

So this woman, strange as she may be, was a hunter who was paid to be such. A curious notion but not one that was unfamiliar to Mor’gann. There were those on Dxun who also paid to have others hunt for them. Though those were usually women or men who didn’t mind giving a night of entertainment for a bounty of food or whatever goods they needed. Though some did this enough that they grew thick and fat with their sloth and greed. Causing their own downfall as their former partners would move to more attractive suitors. Sipping carefully from the mug she had to admit this place could brew it’s drinks well, though the potency was far stronger than what one could find on Dxun. Shrugging her shoulders slightly, Mor’gann considered the comment about the smuggler as a choice of travelling aide. ”Ship.” She explained simply and truthfully. A smuggler was the only ship that came to Dxun and the only ship that left- well aside from the odd rumor of ships coming to one of the far distant ruins. As hostile as Dxun was, travelling far from the village was hardly viable. ”Good price.”

Adaahna, losing track of her own drinking alternated between sipping and sloshing the mug idly while she thought, everything becoming warmer and fuzzier as she went. ”Ah.. Then that must mean you can’t pilot them either. There goes my plan..” She spoke aloud, though not consciously, slipping into Togruti for a few moments at a barely audibly volume as she tried to think her way through to a new idea before giving up. The togruta glanced back up to her drinking companion, flashing a smile before sitting upright again and clearing her throat. ”Then, I wonder.. What would be on Taris, something worth finding? Adventures to be had, credits to be made?.” She leaned in to listen to Mors’ response, intent on finding something interesting out, if she hadn’t found her new pilot.

Mor’gann was in the motion of shrugging when a fellow sporting quite the lump on his head came stumbling in. Perhaps looking for somewhere to drown his sorrows, or rather his headache. Dressed in a manner that pretty much said he was used to space-faring, he was handsome enough to charm a lady but not so much as to have hordes chasing after his dashing personae and daring adventures. Average is as average does would be the words to go to the smuggler from Dxun. Saved from answering, Mor’gann hunched her shoulders, hoping the fool would miss her in the dim light. ”No Dxun.” She pointed out. No one wanted to be on Dxun, and those that did were half mad. Or consumed by the spirit that dwelt within the Temple.

Noticing her companion hunching down, she leans back in her chair, frowning as her moderately impaired brain does its best to compute. “Something wrong with Dxun?.. Nothing to hunt, no food?.” Adaahnas’ voice getting louder and more boisterous as the alcohol starts taking its toll. Glancing around to take a glance at the guy entering the cantina, she shakes her head barely even trying to be subtle “Looks like he ran into a post or something!. I suppose your kind can’t sense their surroundings too well, How dull!.” Her hand slapping down on the table at what to her now felt like a joke.
The woman was drunk and boisterous. Mor’gann would be amused by the fact if the man she brained with a pipe hadn’t been attracted by the attention. He had been wandering about for a bit and this wasn’t his first drink. Spying the barbarian who had brained him, the smuggler gave a nasty sneer as he stumbled towards the table. ”Well, well! Look who I ran into! Didn’t get far after you knocked me out and robbed me.” Slamming his hand on their table the smuggler plucked up her mug and drained it. ”Good drink. Still owe me for taking my credits though.”

Mor’gann gave a pointed glower at the man. ”Owe no. Taris pay passage. No Taris. No pay.” It all seemed rather simple to the young woman. She had paid to go to Taris, not Mandalore.

Rather confused by why the man had come over to berate her companion, Adaahna rather quickly pieced together why by listening in. Her good mood quickly fouling as the man helped himself to Mors’ drink. Her hand resting rather firmly on the strangers arm “‘scuse me, mister human.. But me an’ my frien’ here were having a nice drink, and you’re interrupting.. An’ i’ll have the credits for that one you polished off.. “ She pushed herself up to her feet, doing her best to seem intimidating and puffing out her chest. “an’ while we’re on it.. Why would somebody rob you, you’re wearing the same schlock as the rest of the people in this cantina, at least this lass has the sense to wear something her ancestors would be proud of!.” . Feeling justly proud of herself, Adaahna couldn’t restrain herself from housing a ridiculously arrogant grin on her face.

The smuggler looked rather confused when the Togruta gripped his arm and stood up loudly demanding credits for the drink he had just chugged. ”Look here, that wraith stole my credits. You with her?”

”Adaahna O’Shilis.” Mor’gann spoke over them both. Her voice icy cold with the warning as she gazed at the man, standing herself though her height was far from impressive. ”Paid passage Taris, not Man’d’lore. Took price Man’d’lore.” She continued in her native tongue. ”Why could you not have remained knocked out? I should have hit you harder.” However it was to be her undoing. Mistaking a tone of annoyance and her native tongue to be dealing an insult and already past his limit on those, the smuggler swung at Mor’gann. The woman dodging enough that the fist merely took her in the shoulder rather than the face as was intended sending her down into her seat again.

Seeing a fist swing towards her new drinking buddy, Adaahna decided that the stranger intended to harm her friend, her hand on the mans arm gripping tighter as she let out a hiss, twisting the mans arm as best she could as she sending her other fist drunkenly across the mans jaw. ”Mister human, i am quickly becoming unhappy with you.” Her mind half focussing on the rest of the room, waiting for any signs of others moving to be picked up by her montrals.

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

Mor'gann Arnhar

Location: Mandalore

It had been with a little bit of dumb luck and a fair bit more of educated guessing that Mor had found something that for better or worse resembled the bazaar of her home. A street that was given over to shops of all different sorts. Some had the scent of food and drink. Others were visited by the spaceships contraptions that helped to keep the ships together. Odd constructions she was hardly sure of, experience over the years had taught her to be wary of things that were not understood. Caution was the better part of valor and knowledge could only be gained if one was alive to gain it after all. Sniffing the air slightly, Mor'gann noted a fruity smell that was off enough to have to sidestep a large and eager looking man as he hurried through one of the metal doors. Noted a few less than scantily clad women within, Mor'gann continued on her curiosity sated and herself completely uninterested in the frolicking of fools.

The majority of the clamor was from the vendors. For every building given over to some practice or other, there were two handfuls of stalls with people hawking their wares right near the docks. For someone from the quite moon of Dxun, Mor'gann could feel the headache coming on. Yet she couldn't seem to see or hear enough. There were some of the strangest being selling apparently even more odd creatures that chittered or howled. Colors she had never seen and couldn't give a name to, metal twisted into tools that she could not even begin to guess their purpose. But she was not blind to the eyes that would watch her, nor was she letting her guard down as she was buffeted by the crowd. Oh, would that the market would be less crowded! As it was she was squeezing past a green and scaley man who was arguing with a pale man who had tails from his head. Their gestures wild and giving a bit of room about them as others stopped every so often to watch.

Finally breaking free of the crowd she found a man who had a stack of leathers and was working one into something or other. Mor'gann wasn't about to even try to guess. At least this was a chance to relieve herself of a few goods and gain perhaps something of more value to a pilot. This 'man' thankfully seemed to be mostly normal, til she got close enough to see the snout looking nose and the tusks. Thick grey hair and a beard to match, he looked as old as the shaman though in much better health. Setting her pack by her feet, she knocked on the pole that held up the overhang, a custom she well understood from her own planet. The strange creature looked up sharply, speaking in the language that was common among spacefarers. "Huh? What d'ya want?" The woman lifted the top of her back with a foot, revealing a few of the hides she had kept for her own trading outside from getting off Dxun. They were not the best, but they were decent enough she could get a pair of boots from them or a new tunic. "Hides... What from? They don't look in the best condition."

"Maalraas hides." Mor'gann stated in a cool voice. Her accent drawing out the 'l' and rolling the 'r'. A subtle thing. Had she not seen the tools first, she would have thought this... creature... as exactly that. A creature, but he was able to use the tools and speak. It startled and stunned the young woman, but she wasn't really in the place to argue.

"Maalraas? From Dxun?" He pronounced the moon as 'Dunx', causing Mor'gann to frown. Her lips thinning as she tried to work out the word. Giving it up to the strangeness of this entire place, she nodded sharply while reaching down and offering the top one over to the strange 'man'. Taking it the Ugnaught looked the leather over, whistling through his lips slightly. "Perhaps not a Maalraas in 'er prime, but one taken clean for the most part. Scales cleaned nicely. White too... Not often we see that." Mor'gann kept a politely neutral face as the creature seemed pleased with the leather. It had been from a younger Maalraas and it's pack. While she had been loath to kill the pack, her escape from Dxun had been the priority. Those moments when she had waited to strike she could recall well the legends of warriors who had tamed the beasts into loyal companions. Would that she had done the same, but there had never been the opportunity. To get a Maalraas pup she would have had to kill the pack and that would have left the pup exposed to the hardships of being an outcast of her village. Most likely her tormentors would find the pup while she tried to protect it and kill it. She had given up the dream as merely that.

Coming back to the present she raised a brow as the man commented with a bit of an apologetic note to his voice. Something she heard rarely outside of the farmers of Dxun when she had traded with them. "I can offer you Fourty-five credits for each skin if they are all as good as this." She considered the number. 'Fourty... five... Five and four'. It was more than what the traders would have given her at Dxun. Nodding she frowned as she picked up the remaining four, setting aside the last red one for her own use. Perhaps it was vanity but she enjoyed the leather of Maalraas. "One Hundred and Eighty then." The odd pink man nodded, turning about to rummage pulling out a small chest and piling a small stack of metal next to it. Each marked with a number and some being in different colors. It was odd to say the least. Mor'gann was used to the bartering of Dxun, this was far apart from that. Sighing, she patiently waited for the man to finish his business. Her yellow eyes scanning the market as she waited, her hides drapped over one hand. It had been some luck that she had found the man, and he was giving her a decent enough price. Now there was the question of what to do after she had the money?

That proved easy enough as hide and ingots were exchanged and Mor'gann set about wandering the market once more. The lure of food proving the temptation this time. Though which food would be passable. Some of the things looked less than palable, while others looked edible. The problem being communication as she had no idea what they were, and she sure as hell did not want to order a tastey bit of meat and get one of those twisted looking slugs. She had eaten her share of questionable things on Dxun, but she was drawing the line at slugs Mor'gann decided as she watched a four-handed, spindly-legged creature with fangs in its mouth slap a wriggling eel onto a board. Chopping it up before slipping it into a flat wrap of what looked like a type of plant before handing it to the buyer. While watching her side twinged from the slice she had gained from her assassination of the guards of the relic. Rubbing it absently, she shoved that to the side as well. It was a minor wound, one that would heal with time. Which apparently she had plenty of. She just needed to decide on some supper.

Blood's Jewels (High Casual Fantasy Revolution)

---

---

---

---

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

---

---

In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

Counter of Days: 5 days

---

The Black Widow merely gave an annoyed huff as she began to weave the spell. Craft was a delicate thing that required one's concentration. The Black Widow's specialty all the more so as the line between sanity and madness was so very fragile. Yet small little distracts kept popping up. Minor annoyances that ruffled the Eyrien woman's infamous temper. A heart of ice or a heart of iron. Cold and uncaring as her patients sometimes called her to be. Yet now something was nibbling at that heart and making her cool and unflappable personality shift. Finally, she collapsed the web and tossed it into the forgotten fireplace. A ball of witchfyre following to burn the spell into nothing more than ash. Turning a cold gaze on where the Eyrien Warlord Prince had been sitting. "What did you mean it did not end well?! That 'last time' was merely a fluke after a night spent healing a madman and your own injuries. I can well take care of myself."

---

---

Elsewhere in Eldra ,Shalador

---

As the door opened the shopkeeper looked up, fear flickering across his face at the sight of a well dressed Aristo woman. Few of that sort ever visited his shop. When they did, they usually sent a servant rather than come themselves or were expected to be waited on rather than browse the shelves themselves. This one, however, had gone straight to the shelves giving him no time to attempt to slip out form behind the counter to assist her or to warn his other client. Let along try to hide the wall of those books that would surely cost him his other hand and most likely everything attached. Scrambling in an attempt anyways, the old man bowed stiffly as he raised his voice a bit louder than necessary in the dead quiet of the shop. "Is there anything I can help you with, Lady=? Would you rather sit while I fetched the books that might interest such a woman as yourself?"

The books were clean, though the shelve themselves were old and worn. A slight coating of dust covering what didn't hold a book. The chairs where a client might sit and read were clean by the standards of those who were not Aristo. Comfortable as well, but any Lady of 'respectable' status would turn up her nose at them. Webs hung in the corners and the candles in the holders were old. As if they should have been replaced or used but hadn't. It wasn't exactly uncommon among the lower class if they were cutting costs. A sad fact if a town was being squeezed far too tight by the local Queen. Catching the pitched and the warning of the shopkeeper's voice, Saetan looked up. He was a tall man, but dark. Blending into the shadows as he listened, reading the psychic scent that was alluring to him and disgusting at the same time.

There was a Queen in the store.

Oh, he hated them. Dispised that twisted caste that was destroying the Blood and all they stood for. Yet there was a subtle sweetness to this psychic scent, one that he couldn't stray from. So he waited and listened. Absently using his Craft to close the secret panel and hide the books that could damn the shopkeeper and his family. Perhaps it was that he was curious, but he felt a spell woven into that scent. One that was free of the rot that Dorothea spread. Who would be so bold to try to spell him?

Meanwhile, in the alleyway, the dark scent still swirled. A few people wandered past the trio, keeping to themselves and hurrying along. Not paying too much attention to the faces around them. Especially not the well-dressed couple despite how they acted. Most tried to press themselves into the wall. One was a smaller figure, no more than a child. A lad by the looks of it. Who hesitated as they turned the corner, spying Jandar and Dareen in their disguises. Slipping away the lad moved with haste as though he had seen enough, or perhaps too much.

Blood's Jewels (High Casual Fantasy Revolution)

---

---

---

---

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

---

---

In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

Counter of Days: 5 days

---

The Eyrien Black Widow looked about ready to spit nails at the Warlord Prince as he patted her head like she was an excitable child. To the dead-man-walking, or sitting rather, it was all too amusing. A wheezing chuckle eased through his throat as the two exchanged words. "Not much of a tale. I was a tailor's assistant in the town. A decent fellow- now half a century dead. Not like I am, he's dead and gone. A Whisper in the Darkness." There was a wistfulness to the tone of the demon dead. "We were making a dress for the bitch's daughter. Lady Marthea was displeased with the dress her daughter had foisted upon us to make. Who were we to say no?" Xandar would well know the tales of those who refused a Queen's relative. The punishment from them was often just a smidge below what the Queen themselves could dole out. Daughters were especially cruel and if that daughter was of the same caste as her mother? Then woe betide the wretch who defied the family!

Nodding slightly to himself the demon dead sneered. "'Course they didn't want to lose the tailor quite yet. There was a exquisite bit of entertainment that was going on they might be invited to. They would have to look their best." A scoff came from Faeril as she bared her teeth in anger. An icy chill that was filling the basement of a witch's rage, something the Shalador man did not notice. "So they dragged me to their 'rat pit' and gathered up all those pesky Shaladorians who thought rebelling might be a good idea. Got the traders as well to spread the word in part. In part to turn it into a bit of a festival." Struggling with the emotions of his death, the Shalador demon dead fell silent for long minutes. "Found the tailor dead a month later. They fed him to the rats. I've wanted that bitch Marthea dead since my death, but couldn't get close to her. The guards and the town were... repulsed by me. Diseased they thought. Thought I was too, til I drank the blood of some poor guard only trying to carry out his job so his family could eat. Knew what I was then, and I envied that my master never joined me."

---

---

Elsewhere in Eldra ,Shalador

---

The alley was narrow and dirty, something that would turn away even the most curious of the aristocratic class. If they even knew it was there. The traffic seemed to be those too broken to care that the subdued scent of a Queen wafered through the narrow space as Fatima wandered over cobblestone and brick lanes. Broken beams looked to have blocked some areas, but there was a sense about them that power had moved them off the side where they were stacked neatly. A man's footprints tracked deeper into the dim alley as it curved and twisted deeper into the city of Eldra. The sense of power growing strong and persistent enough that now any who followed Fatima could sense it. A subtle and delicate warning of danger and a seducing lure of sweetness that could not be replicated. It was dark and heavy on the air. Dareen would feel the intimidating presence of someone who far our ranked her Yellow Jewel. Even Mikhail and Jandar with their Grey and Red respectively would know this power to be darker than their own. Yet it was a subtle and twisting spell that urged Fatima to follow this wild and dark track. A spell wove in the dark of the night in a desperate bid for a future not drenched in blood and malformed by the greed of what the Blood were becoming.

"We don't have any by him sadly. The Queens' never approved of Halmer's works and opinion-" The weary-looking older man who ran the bookstore- and in part black market- with his young daughter and her son informed the well-dressed man. Tugging his white beard the man frowned as he and Saetan SaDiablo stared at the shelves that took up the back of the shop, and could be hidden by a screen which would look like a solid wall. A small alcove giving room for a person to hide as well. The Black Jeweled Warlord Prince had stopped by the shop a time or two before, and the shopkeeper was eager to help this valued customer try to find something to his liking. Never questioning that despite the fact it was going to be in close proximity to the Queens that the book would be safe. It was well known among certain circles that the most powerful man who supposed served Dorothea was under no such notion to his own mind. Though it was not something one brought up in the course of a conversation with the well-rumored man.

"The purges. Yes, I am well aware. Though I had hoped that some of his works had survived." There was bitter disappointment in Saetan's tone that he couldn't quite mask. He had hoped that some small rebellion might take his mind off of Laska and her little games. A book was certainly a way to do that and not look overly conspicious. "I think I shall look for a bit more, if you wish to take care of other things."

The propieter of the shop didn't need another dismissal to leave the Black Jeweled Hyallian alone with the books as he moved back to the counter. The rear wall being hidden by more shelves of equally and far less valuable of books, the windows letting in dim and dusty light. In the long term, it was a small sacrifice to keep the Queens away from his livelihood. With a forlorn look at the faded and peeling 'Ambrose & Sons: Books and Basics' that was half ways gone form the window. A legacy that had been destroyed with his father and brother. He had escaped with a lame hand and a family that had been shattered and shellshocked. Their mother had never recovered, and if she did he hadn't seen her since she had been dragged off to the rat pit. Shaking away the old memories form his head the man went back to his book to tally out the total of purchases so far.

Blood's Jewels (High Casual Fantasy Revolution)

---

---

---

---

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

---

---

In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

Counter of Days: 5 days

---

The entire basement was a mass of dust and ash from the fires that claimed the town above and darker than pitch. Unlike other places worn by time, this dark depression was closed against the light of sun and moon. The rustling of the odd viper rat or other vermin filled the darkness. The ladder that had led down had groaned dangerously under Xandar's weight. A rung going as far as breaking part of the way down. The floor was a mixture of stone and dirt, an unfinished basement or one that had been torn up by the desperate or those smuggling things into or out of town nearby. The footprints scattered about were fresh to the trained eye. Crates and sacks of goods were scattered along the long narrow room giving places for someone to have ducked behind them.

There was a scuffling behind Xandar as Faeril fought her way down the ladder. Her dress snagging on one of the nails that was coming out of the wood. "Why in the name of Hell are you going down here?!" Hissed the Black Widow quietly, and with no small amount of irritation. She had helped the others and seen them off to the nearby town, while Xandar had wrested the table free of the ground which it was nailed to. Thus, being an obstruction to the Warlord Prince. The brothers three had wanted to protest her going down a dark and mysterious hole, but there had been a unanimous decision that so long as Xandar wasn't screaming in pain or Faeril wasn't calling the wrath of Mother Dark then everything was most likely fine. Beyond the witch's complaints, Xandar would hear the hitching of breath and the soft scuffle of feet on the stone floor.

---

---

Elsewhere in Eldra ,Shalador

---

The town of Eldra was elegant in comparison to its neighbor, but there was a bitter chill to the air that had nothing to do with the weather. It was the chill of unwelcome and fear. The psychic scent that was a subtle hint to others of the Blood. There seemed to be a small bit of town that was almost quarantined off from the rest, the sight of those bare fingers with no Jewel gave the reason clear enough. Landens who had been forced to move nearby in order for the local Queen to maintain order. It was far less well maintained than the rest of the town and the people quickly moved out of the way of Fatima and her escort and out of sight. The guards who were keeping the unofficial border looked over the newcomers. Saying nothing but their gazes were variations of interest and wary subtle anger. Newcomers were always a questionable thing after all. Were they spies? Here for the Queen's pleasure? And would that pleasure bring the guards to haul some poor sod forward who had 'insulted' the Queen's guest? They kept their eyes forward, but they did mark the two woman and the Aristo man who passed through and into Eldra.

The streets themselves were kept clean, but the windows to the shops were slightly grimy with dust that hadn't been bothered to be wiped off during the day. It looked to Fatima, Darleen and Mikhail like many other places they had seen in Terreille. People hurried about along the street and tried to avoid looking at these visitors to their 'fair' town. The odd blooms of witchblood sprouting through the cracks in the flagstones. The popular tavern in the town had a few rougher looking men out front, bottles in hand as they talked conspiritorial with themselves. Looking about hesitantly.

"I told you, I saw him go down towards Darla's Red Moon House." Swore one of the men while the others heatedly contested this so-called 'fact'.

"Walst, if that was true then the Queen wouldn't be letting him leave the Manor. Aside, best not talk like that. You know the rumors." There were several other comments both approving and denying. Suggesting that perhaps the individual they spoke of was not so innocent as one would assume.

The street they were following led up past the tavern and several shops for a variety of tailors, a baker, a general store could be seen along with a decrypted looking bookstore and an equally old looking shop that looked like it catered with jewelry. Mikhail could well catch that the group was being followed by the eyes of several people. Namely by one weedy looking man who was far better dressed as he scuttled towards the tavern. The whispering group falling silent as he passed and watched the man pass with disgust obvious on their face as he sneered in return at them. A mutual dislike.

Darleen could very well note that the guards and fighters in town were sub=par. Not the best at their jobs. Typical of towns like this the real fighters would have been snatched up by more powerful Queens or would be kept close to the Queen. Her loyal guards. Yet the undercurrent of nerves in the town led Darleen to pick up on something else. Many of the men in front of the tavern had the balance of people who were expecting or ready to start trouble.

Fatima would sense the strange, unnerving pull that was a lure to her, but there was also a dark power that was just a hint. A thread that wove through the town. Something powerful had been about the streets and recently. It was a pull that could draw one up and through the thin crowds towards the side streets where even less fortunate shops would be. Through crooked and twisting trails into a small antique shop where books were sold. Not books that would acceptable to the local Queens but those that spoke of far more pure times to specific customers.

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

Mor'gann Arnhar

Location: Mandalore

She had not agreed to this.

Those were the only thoughts on the matter that Mor'gann Arnhar, the traitor of her former tribe, could cohesively form on the matter without losing her temper and the limited grasp on the Basic language that she had. What she had paid for in the choice hides she had collected and preserved over the years was passage to Taris aboard the smuggler's ship. Not passage to this place. "Not Taris." Came the cool voice as she blocked the smuggler's way. A hand straying to the thick knives on her belt and one decrepit saber hilt. "Paid passage Taris." She wasn't the most impressive figure, but the smuggler was wise enough to back up a step. He had traded with her people a handful of times before and she had offered him an extremely cheap deal for hides that would have been only cost him a tad more in useless gear. The only thing was that he would have a passenger for a time.

The smuggler for his part frowned, "What you paid for was transport to another planet. I was heading to Taris, now I aint." Annoyed by the young warrior, he was loath to get in a fight with the young woman. The tribe on Dxun were hunters and in a closed space, he didn't want to get in a tangle when his blaster could damage his own ship. The rust bucket was falling apart as it was, not that the barbarian woman knew that. "My buyer for your hides said to meet them here on Mandalore. So I don't have a reason to go to Taris unless it's to get drunk. There's no business that would take me that way right now."

The yellow eyes that unnerved the smuggler stared at him for several long moments as Mor'gann worked through the Basic language that worked through the nonsensical words. So he wasn't going to Taris, because he got a better trade here. For her hides. She disliked that especially. Oh, Mor'gann well knew that the smuggler was going to get a far higher price than what he paid for them. It had never bothered her before she had left Dxun, but the rules of survival were changing. The money would be useful, especially if she needed off the planet again. "No Taris? Hides price go up."

"No. I took you off that planet. I'm not paying more for those hides." The smuggler argued. There was no reason for him to lose such a large profit just because some primitive woman couldn't accept how the galaxy worked. "Now let me by." He shoved passed the woman and down the ramp to where he had docked. There were hides to unload and he was trying to pass as an honest merchant of sorts.

Mor'gann felt her arm be knocked aside as the smuggler pilot made his exit. Oh, the bastard had cheated her and now she was to be let on this forsaken planet. Taris, she had heard was a city and surely in a city of many people, she would have found a way to survive. In Mandalore, an unknown place, she was not so sure. She had questioned the smuggler at length beforehand on the planet and it was all very alien to the young shaman. "No." She disagreed, plucking a spare piece of piping that was meant to repair the ship, testing its heft for a moment before whirling and slamming it into the back of the smuggler's head. He shouted as he gripped his throbbing head, and Mor'gann swept the make-shift staff under his feet. Sending him tumbling down the ramp as she followed in a more conservative fashion. "My apologies, but if you insist on leaving me on an unknown planet, then I require back what I paid you for information. Do try to forget about me. It's for our best interests." She chatted amicably in her native tongue to the unconscious body while she checked the wound and found it not life-threatening. At most, the man would wake with a throbbing headache and nauseous. Killing he wouldn't have done her any good. He had gotten her off of Dxun, and that was something Mor was grateful for. Quickly, she plucked a decently sized pouch from the man finding it fulled of enough what she recognized as a currency. Though it was something she wasn't used to seeing. The traders who were new to Dxun often offered them such things and found themselves rejected. The tribe didn't see much use, when they need things.

Sighing, the young woman dragged the man back up the ramp, setting him just beside a pile of the hides she had sold him for her freedom from the rotten planet where she was born. Rubbing the back of her neck and feeling the bone pin that held her dark hair out of her face. She should not have done that and Mor was cursing herself a fool. But she had paid him for information that she felt justly cheated out of. So it was fair, in a sense. Thinking better of sticking around too much longer, the Dxun native scooped up the pack she had and strapped the rough staff to it as well. It would have been better if she had taken some of the hides, but he had gotten her off of Dxun. Taking the hides would just be wrong as he had provided that service at least. As it was she was sticking out like a maalraas's red skin in the middle of a sunny glade. "Oh, joy. I go from a home where everything wants to kill me, to a place where people cannot speak straight and cut horrid bargains. This is going to be wonderful. Just splendid." Muttered Mor'gann with annoyance, as she drew the hood of the drexli leather cloak up over her pale face.

Blood's Jewels (High Casual Fantasy Revolution)

---

---

---

---

Arc I - Terreille in Trouble

---

---

In the ruined town of Sharon, Shalador

Interacting with @Slim Shady @13org @Silverpaw [@Zoey White] @eclecticwitch
Counter of Days: 5 days

---

Gen had helped Jandar find a bucket. Fishing one out of the carriage as well as calling forth his own waterskin and surrendering it for the Dhemlan's frivolous pursuit. It was a very sensible thing to do, and the Warlord had to admit that Jandar did pull off the part of the Aristo with natural ease. Giving a soft chuckle as Dareen asked if Jandar would lay down his life for Fatima, the Eyrien warrior smirked slightly. "Lass, Fatima is the first Queen in centuries that I've seen been so selfless and uncaring of her station. And I'm not sure that's for the best." Though the first part of Gen's statement was praise there was a worried undertone to the rest of it. Fatima's excitable eagerness was indeed refreshing but there was more to being a Queen than raw power and eager joyfulness. The Lady would need to interact with the Aristo and other Queens who would do their utmost to undermind the young woman. The Courts, even at times of peace, could be vicious. Rumors and rivals cutting under the Queen needed to be taken into a firm and cautious hand. Faeril's mother had ruled for a time and she had sent away a good few upstarts when the young woman had tried to tempt away Nivarian's men. "If you are going to go as a man, though." Gen mused in thought as he studied Dareen. "What about her psychic scent? She'd be made quite easily that way and questions could be few or many. There are plenty of reasons for a woman to dress and take work as a man in hopes she wouldn't be noticed. But there are those who would target her because of that. Gen pointed out, reasonably. As Mikhail joined the group, the Warlord stepped to the side to let the Dea Al Mon through. Respectfully letting those actually going on the little foray to speak upon the matter. They were competent folk after all.

Meanwhile, Faeril waved the Grey Jeweled Queen's question away. "Perhaps, but it would be far from my best work. I'm still uncomfortably..." There was a tense and pointed glare at Xandar as the large Warlord Prince commented on her own choice of clothing. "My clothing is perfectly fine!" She hissed after the brute. "As if you had any fashion sense to speak of! Your clothing consists of what is ripped and torn and what is patched and what has yet to see battle." The Widow retorted with annoyance, distracted from what Fatima had asked. Though not their potential guest, as she shooed Fatima back to the group. "Go work out your details and I'll see what I can whip up out of Xandar's skin." Xandar would notice the 'creature' slip behind the wall within the ruined house. Several viper rats that had not been in the nest when he set it ablaze skittering as the mysterious being disturbed them from their hiding place. If he would to look, this wall blocked off what might have been a kitchen at one point. A place that had been warded against fire, and thus protecting it from the flames that had seemed to have taken the rest of the house. A small trapdoor stood open under a table that looked study enough, even if one of the legs seemed eaten through by the vermin.

The Repository

For anyone who pokes their head in here. I'm keeping a log of all my characters and their various prototypes. Differentiate between the masses, so to speak. Also, note to self. Write up and store Bloods Jewels characters here.

Table of Contents:

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

Mor'gann Arnhar

Mor'gann 'Mor' Arnhar

| {Full Name} |

Mor'gann Arnhar

| {Age} |

16

| {Species} |

Human

| {Gender} |

Female

---

| {Force Sensitive/Alignment} |

Yes - Grey

| {Appearance} |

Appearance

The first word to come to mind when one is looking at Mor’ would be the worn and dated clothing that speaks of a far more barbaric nature that does not fit with an age of space. Wearing a soft shirt of some cloth under a hardened leather tunic-vest, the latter of dark maalraas leather. One shoulder would be adorned with a pauldron made from the hardened spine of a zakkeg and her forearms would be armored with battered and chipped plasteel. With soft leather breeches layered over with hardened sections and hard leather boots that lace up her legs, all under a cloak of drexl leather.

Not cutting the most imposing figure, Mor stands at five feet and seven inches and is lean from a life of little food and more work that would be reasonable. Scarred from various fights and hunts, the most notable is scar pulling down one corner of her lips into a slight grimace. Her yellow eyes, hinting at her blood not being purely human, are shocking when ringed with the dark paint she circles them with and her chin-length black hair. Her nose looks like it has been broken before and healed into something resembling a beak.

| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |

Equiptment and Personal Belongings

Soft leather breeches, a tunic-vest of maalraas leather looking several years old and patched, leather boots, scarred and chipped plasteel bracers, hardened leather vest, a zakkeg plate for a shoulder pauldron, a cloak of drexl skin, unstable and old lightsaber (red) and an old albeit well cared for blaster. She also has several knives upon her person. Two for skinning, one for the butchering of meat, and another for fighting.

In a pack, she carries a small pot, and several tokens from creatures she's killed. Fangs from Maalraas, Drexls, and Bomas to name some. Several hides from the creatures of Dxun to use as barter. A basic kit to set up a camp and a first aid kit made up of a variety of the herbs used on Dxun.

| {Physical Abilities} |

Physical Abilities

Naturally agile and dexterous, Mor took up moving unnoticed and silently due to her situation as an outcast. She has a very keen eye for detail and picking up on situations with a sharp ear. While quick on her feet, she can't always avoid taking damage and has learned how to endure the pain of it. She can go a bit longer than others with less food, but it does take just as much a toll as food was something scarce in her youth. She is very quick to pick up on things and is often doing something with her hands. Trained as a Shaman by her mentor, Mor'gann's memory and perception are sharp as the lessons are taught orally down thru the clan.

| {Force Abilities} |

Force Abilities

Running a bit faster than normal and force jumping when running away from something. Being a bit more aware of her surroundings while looking out for danger. Blending a bit more with shadows when slipping through very tense areas where being seen would be VERY bad.

| {Limitations} |

Limitations

Until a short time ago, Mor is very limited in what she knows of life off of Dxun. Technology is something very odd to her. Incurring her ability to fly a ship being very rough. She speaks a combination of Old Mandella, High Galactic, Ancient Sith melded into an odd dialect. Though she does understand enough in the basic language to get her point across herself, though she cannot read it at all. She can't lift anything heavy as she isn't strong, nor does she have the staying power to take a hit and stay standing. She's not to sort who can go toe to toe with a trained fighter and win without using her preferred method of ambushes or hitting a weakened spot constantly. And she certainly cannot take on a group of opponents.

---

| {Personality} |

Personality

She doesn’t often speak and with good reason for what had she to say that people would listen to, especially a coward like her? Still her thirst for knowledge is insatiable and her desire for it is nearly boundless. A loner among the clans of her tribe on Dxun, Mor watched and listened rather than embroil herself into the games of politics of the village. Hardened at the fact of taking a life, Mor has little quarelm if it comes to such an act, though she will spare someone just as often as kill them. If her tribe was not so relentless about stamping out weakness. A fact that later made her leery of accepting aid from others, and more often seeking ways to even out the supposed ‘debt’. An odd fact as she was prone to giving favors to the weak or small in the village and asking for nothing in return. In her eyes, it was pointless to make things harder on them and if she built some good will, then all the better. Not that good will was built.

If one were to get to know her, Mor would be snide and snarky individual. With a penchant for dry humor and pessimism. She has a very firm ‘no’ which she will use repeatedly and can really dig in her heels on a matter. Prone to flights of panic and nerves when confronted with what she would consider a ‘hopeless’ situation, unusual as she is usually considering the possibility of her death.

| {Place of Origin} |

Place of Origin

Dxun. A backwater moon circling the planet Onderon, where death is a constant threat. The civilization that Mor'ann comes from dwelt in the village that dwelt near the Tomb of Freedon Naad, a place where power and strength were one and the same. The village was a simple thing with small fields surrounding various huts for storage and the clans of the village. The middle most ring being those of the children cast out of their clan houses to train with others of their age to become hunters in their time. Mor’s mother was a self-serving woman. Jealous and greedy in her pursuit for the best that could be offered no matter the means. It was this that led her to her death shortly after Mor had been given over at six to live within a children's huts.

The resources on Dxun are limited to the many creatures and what could be gathered and quickly. The many past battles and struggle to build places on Dxun left the hostile planet with a scattering of the remains. From old mandalorian armors and weapons to the remains sealed away in the temple. While the village seldom interacted with outsiders they did get the occasional trader looking to buy low and sell high, gaining the skins of various creatures and the odd relic from the temple of Freedon Naad. The farming and making of the clothing and tools the village needed were left to those too young, old, or feeble who did not have what it took to hunt for themselves. Those on the bottom of the social order. The exception to this and holding the middle ground between the weak and strong were the shamans. The hunters were physical fighters and were reluctant and distrustful about anything they themselves could not fight. Such as a possessed and haunted temple. A rumor passed down from generation to generation and kept alive by the odd strange sighting within the beskar temple. Thus the shamans were kept fed and cared for by their apprentices and those hunters who had excess.

| {Background} |

Background

Born to Tau’ra of the Arnhar Clan and one of her many tryst, Mor'gann's mother didn't pay much attention to the daughter once she was six years of age. It was a common practice among those who were strong enough to hunt to leave their offspring with groups of others about the same age. They would learn from the elders who had achieved a great deal in the prime of their years ruthlessly taught the younger generations the basics of the skills they would need later in life. These groups were given housing in the barracks built for their use if their families didn't keep room for them in their clan hall. This caused new clans to form of youths that grew up together rather than returning to the halls of their ancestors. Mor in her youth was small and slight, a trait that brought the mockery of the other children who were larger and stronger than her. She learned quickly how to avoid detection and left the barracks she had been groups in shortly after being placed in there. There were several other children who shared the same mindset as her, and most left their lessons to eek out an existence farming the land for what little it could give. The choices were that or to die off. A sad but brutal truth. Weakness was not an acceptable trait on Dxun.

Mor stuck through the lessons however, learning how to hunt the less dangerous beasts and how to avoid other children who would seek her out for trouble. Often trouble was often pinned on Mor as well, no matter whether or not she was actually involved in it. For four years she fought ruthless and dirty for everything. Drawing more dislike from her peers for her methods which were deemed cowardly. Mor would lead away a tormentor or two and then systematically trick them up and beat them or lead them into trouble where the same thing would happen. It was in the small girl’s best interest to avoid out right fights though she was being trained in them. For her engage in one would turn a mob against her as their barrack would join.

When she was ten though, things changed dramatically. One of the shamans of the clan had taken an apprentice but the young fool had died due to fighting a pack of Maalraas and losing. Noted for her Sensitive to the energies of the Temple, Mor was picked from a line-up along with another boy about her age who was not so attuned. The elders of the village were eager of this chance to get rid of a ‘coward’. So it was decided that the two would fight, and so they did. It was a close match and Mor put the boy down hard. Leaving him alive as an act of mercy, which was not acceptable. The boy was shamed and in his anger gave Mor the scar that marred her face into a grimace. He would have killed her, but Mor was far faster and crushed his throat with her staff. Leaving him gasping on the ground as death claimed him. Mor’gann learned the hardest lesson of her young life then. She could not afford mercy in a fight, and so she began her training to be a Shaman.

Something that hovered between a student and a servant to the old man. Hunting and helping him in his care of the temple to keep the spirit that dwelled there at bay. Mor spent long hours honing her skills fighting with the staff and vibro blades the clan kept. The enemies of her youth still tried to corner her and with far less success. Being a Shaman’s offered some protection what it did not, her own far more ruthless nature did. Now instead of merely leading astray a few to leave them with broken bones rather than bruises. Some never returned, and no fingers could be pointed at Mor as there were other rivalry or causes. Especially when the hunters would find the missing person with wounds from a zakkeg or maalraas, a far more likely cause. In truth, Mor led them away and left them wounded. Their death was not a direct result but she did have a hand in it.

The elders however were growing more suspicious, especially when treasured prizes were going missing though she was not involved with this (except for the pauldron of a zakkeg). Suspecting her days were number, a fact furthered by the illness that had befallen the Shaman she studied under. Mor gave her mentor, a decent man if harsh, a more worthy death than the disease. Slitting his throat to make his passing far faster. She had no desire to remain on Dxun and to serve the village as a shaman. There were other places and options for where else did the trades that sometimes descend upon the ruins come from? Paying off one with hides and a few trinkets from her mentor, Mor left the village with one last act of treason. She killed the four guards to the village’s artifact, a relic lightsaber that had been found in the temple years ago. A feat that left her partly wounded, not that she inform the pilot of this. The killing of the guards had not been her intent but if they had learned of the deed before she was off the planet it would have meant her death. The price for her flight was a couple of years worth of hides and trinkets, but Mor’ann’s payment took her all the way to Taris, far from the grasp of Dxun and the elders.