Keeping stride with the halfblood, Thaegrin sees the grieving Sorcha ahead, and gently clears his throat as he approaches, as to not startle them. He nods an acknowledgement to the guards. He bows deeply and takes a somber tone. “My Lady Sorcha, the family was met with more ill fortune while you mourned for your father.” He pauses, delicately choosing his words, “Your brother Drostan was also poisoned, but due to his youth and active pursuit of combat prowess, he was able to resist it longer. He lived long enough to discover the culprit and pass a sentence, but in the end his body succumbed to the toxin.”
He holds his tongue on the news of her Ladyship, knowing her grief might be too terrible to bear all at once. The court adviser suddenly felt invisible strings, connecting himself to those around him: the nursemaid, the spymaster, and the maimed Lady. It seemed to him that he could affect their emotional state, if only slightly. He tests this perceived connection to the three by attempting to bolster their hearts against fear and despair. Peculiar. I wonder if this connection is limited by range…
“Come,” he adds quietly, “Say goodbye to your brother.”
As he gestures to proceed down the hall, he watches her face carefully.
Facion stands quietly next to the old Feraweni. His gray gaze follows the young Lady.
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Little Sorcha's face falls, not from grief it seems, but from a terrible apathy made all the worse by her few years.
"I will attend him at the funeral. For now, it would seem that I am head of this house, unless granny will assume control. I do not think this likely though since you are here, and not with her."
"Is this so Thaegrin?"
“It is,” he lowers a bow, “Your brother Eonan says he and I are to advise your rulership of Lehrehn and the family. Presently, he makes for Veir in all haste, likely to forestall our commitment to either side of this civil war. He named me Chief Agent on behalf of House Rudianos, and I will oversee affairs that do not require your utmost attention. I have already sent for a replacement apothecary, and the guilty one is in the dungeon serving his sentence of three days of torture before hanging from the city walls, where the birds will feast on the wretch’s remains. A quick execution seemed too merciful.”
The wizard turns the conversation in another direction. “I think it would be wise to hold a council to discern what exactly is at our disposal for these troubling times -how many horses and spears we command, what allies, far and near, can be counted on should enemies march on your city. At your word, of course.”
The chief agent waits for an answer, secretly hoping to be free to study as he pleases for the rest of the day.
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Sorcha nods thoughtfully then speaks.
"I appreciate your eagerness wizard. I have much to think on. Shall we meet tomorrow? We will break fast together."
She turns to depart, then turns back. "Oh, bring the Spymaster and the Thelkonlanders. And be sure to pack for a long journey, I think."
She makes her way down the hall hand in hand with her nursemaid.
Watching the young lady move off Anga turns and gives a perfunctory nod to the Wizard. He quickly makes his way to the dungeons he selects two guardsmen he knows to be loyal to the power of House Rudianos, as well as being close-tongued.
He tells them of Eonan's orders and makes all haste to apprehend the former Lady Rudianos.
Of course. Facion sighs inwardly as he peers into the fetid soup. "Wait here." He commands the two men as he takes a tentative step to the door.
Pressing into the room Facion takes care to keep his eyes open against the bite of the smoke.
Thaegrin bows as the Lady leaves. He nods to the halfblood as he departs and turns in the hallway, walking toward his study.
Once inside, he looks carefully about before locking the door behind him. At times I wonder why I bother ...
He eagerly retrieves his crafting supplies and frumpy grey hat, and begins integrating arcane power into the wrinkled cloth for the next four hours.
Moving with purpose Anga keeps an eye on the shoes under the curtains while fiddling with the flu.
Moving around the room he unshutters a window or two, the ones furthest from the shoes.
As the smoke starts to clear the spy glances about the room quickly double checking for anything he may have missed. With long lithe steps he moves back to the door and signals the two men to come in.
Gesturing to the shoes under the curtains he indicates that the two should apprehend the lady.
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The guards move into the room and, ducking low beneath the smoke, move to arrest the figure in the shoes.
Once the pass Anga, the doors snap shut.At the same time, the guards lay hands on an empty curtain: the shoes vanishing in small puffs of smoky air.
A heartbeat later, blood gushes from one of the soldier's necks alongside a black, tar-like substance. The man pales, but keeps his feet.
The devil take that woman, she never can be easy. Facion thinks as he steps back into the thinning smoke. Unshouldering his bow he nocks an arrow and waits, staring into the room.
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Anga sees the other guard crouch behind his shield; a look of manic fear writ plain on his young face.
Two knives wing out of the smoky shadows straight for the spy master!
One knife sinks into Anga's hip. The wound is deep. The other slides in to the hilt, piercing a lung.
The downed guard continues to writhe and twitch uncontrollably.
Wracking pain shoots down your antiquated spine. A sensation wholly troubling.
Almost as if acting on instinct, the moment the half-blood senses movement he turns and releases the arrow.
As the dual knives find their target he gasps in pain. Quickly he smothers the noise rising in his throat. Clamping his mouth shut he moves away from where the knives appeared, attempting to blend into the smoke, un-securing his cloak and putting it away as he moves.
Peering into the fog, Facion searches to pinpoint his opponents location.
Confident he now knows where the attacks originated, the man of many voices masks the pain in his own and calls and throws his voice out into the room. "There! Right before you the coward lies! Fear not, her petty womans tricks are no match for strong soldiers!"
Resuming his silence Anga quietly draws and uncorks a potion, swallowing down the bitter medicine.
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It's as if my very blood screams to warn me of danger. Thaegrin looks around and sees no immediate threat to his person. The sensation comes again. Strange.
My blood...Farenweni blood...Anga! The Dowager!
Anga's arrow thuds and an angry howl breaks the air.
Unseeing, but trusting Anga's word, the soldier surges forawd behind his shield, spear raised high.
The soldier is rebuffed, but he lashes out with his spear.
The shaft is slammed aside, and there, standing in the smoky shadows, Anga can see Lady Tearlag.
Half her hair has been recently lost to flames. Her teeth are filed to haphazard points. But most unsettling is the dim red glow deep behind her pupils.
She shrieks, an inhuman sound that carries most unnaturally, and strikes out at the brave guard.
Her knife finds glancing purchase at the soldier's elbow joint, drawing blood, but the viscous liquid clings to the blade and does not enter the man's body.
Staying in the smokey shadows of the room Anga dons the cloak, black as night, that he received from Variel.
Opening another vial he drinks it down as quickly as possible.
Tholan scratches at his beard, pondering his most recent interrogation session. I wasn't even asking about his... personal life. I didn't... really didn't need to know that. He shakes his head ruefully and chuckles quietly to himself. He stretches and reaches to unclasp his belt, when a faint noise catches his attention.
He pauses, straining his ears to hear, then the shriek echoes through the halls. He immediately begins to move to the door, quickly patting his blade and armor to ensure everything is in it's place, then calls to his brother, "Brother, did you hear that? I feel battle in my bones, let us seek it out."
He moves into the hall, and begins to run down the hall in the direction of the shriek he heard.
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Th crazed woman bellow again and lashes out with two blades at the poor guardsman.
The guardsman twitches as some of the turgid liquid enters a new wound in his forearm.
He responds in kind, lashing out with his shield and spear.
Both attacks find their target and the woman shrieks again.
Watching the melee, Facion swallows down the second vial. Uncorking and drinking a third.
Ezkal turns as his brother runs out of the room.
"Go brother! We must hurry!" Ezkal said as he grabbed his gear and sprinted down the hall. As they run he whispers to himself.
Thaegrin twitches at the sensation and produces a certain scroll, quickly unrolling it. I should have known to prepare this today! After reciting his own arcane script, the Feraweni winks out of his study in a cough of blue smoke.
The wizard reappears in the hallway outside the criminally insane woman’s room. Seeing the door closed, he listens carefully, touching the wall to add to his senses.
Watching the melee Anga feels about for a very particular arrow. Finding it, he draws back the bow string and prepares to release.
Taking care to move quietly, Anga circles around the room eyes peeled for any movement.
With bowstring taut, he examines the alchemical-arrow. Ensuring all is in it's place.
Ever cautious at the sounds of battle, Thaegrin utters an incantation, and his visage warbles like one looking through uneven glass, with a layer of blue over him that shimmers at certain angles. He calls beyond the door before quietly moving to obscure his position, hoping that playing the ignorant will reveal more information on the halfblood and Lady Tearlag. “Halt, I say! What is going on in there?!”
Of course. Thaegrin sighs, weary of games. We must keep this madwoman contained...
A scroll springs from beneath his sleeve, and he quickly unrolls and utters the magic words of the simple spell. The old wizard disappears once again.
He quietly steps back from the door, retrieving another scroll from his belt.
"By the gods, why are the dungeons so far away," Ezkal huffed as he kept running with his brother.
As the soldier falls Angas arrow flies.
Holding his ground he waits to see if the arrow strikes true.
Dancing back the spy keeps his eyes peeled and back to the wall. Dropping the bow and drawing his rapier in the same fluid motion Facion adopts a defensive stance learned from the sword dancers of Veir.