The mists.

[Penny] [per/med]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4 (Botch x 2 at target 6)

[Penny] *Penny thinks she sees the bit what will need the most attention, and plump fingers begin wiping and dressing the wound, before she sits like a tailor, humming and stitching upon the grisly fabric of moonlit skin. Its fine work, and it will heal well... if.. only she'd noticed the oozing infection prior to peircing a pustule with her needle. It isn't until the ruddy boggan's back has developped a cramp from stooping, and her arms are tired from pushing steel through flesh that she notices ichor oozing from between tidy threads.

Horror.

She was going to have to do this all over again, and disinfect the lot besides, in whatever nooks and crannies were hiding from view. Were she the type to curse she'd be doing so now, instead she simply looks deeply abashed as the Sidhe's mangled arm is unlaced once more like an illfitting corset.*

My deepest apologies dearest Cedric. I'll rob the third and twice will be the charm. I'm sorry.

[Shiori] Penny's house, a quaint little house that held such warmth, such open invitation. Penny herself had made that rather clear when they had met ever so briefly, Penny had even brought her back briefly to give her some of her heart warming stew. Shiori would never admit that the stew had been tasty, quite tasty infact, she had actually called it somewhat tepid even if the flavors were full. But that was simply her Kith, her kinds way of being, an honest to goodness compliment was a rare thing indeed.

She had returned here tonight, sore and somewhat awkward and looked up at the soft welcoming light that issued fro the front of the house. It was her very specific goal to get some more of that stew, if there was any left, she needed some of the boggan's famous comfort.

She stepped up onto that small porch and rapped long knobbed digits against the soft wood of the door before pushing through into the home.

The Nocker which entered was covered by a voile both appropriate to her kith and distinct enough to be her very own, her shirt, or more likely a coat buttoned up down the right hand side, four heavy brass buttons holding the sturdy but supple fabric together, her pants were slightly poofy, baggy one would say for plenty of movement and freedom of air. The entirety of the voile was coloured a deep green, and a brilliant silvered white, the colours swirling together like milk and coffee, or steam with cooler air. The cuffs of both her feet and hands were unnecessarily long, the ruffled material falling so far as to hide her hands and feet from the view of many.

Her stark white hair rose from her head like a column of flame, defying gravity as she strode into the room. Her face paint, as that is surely what it was, was in the style of most Nockers, except for the cheeks, where they would normally be rosey and bright, they swirled together with the white, much like her voile.

[Shiori] [Addendum, she doesnt go in, she stops at the doorstep!]

[Rue] Upstairs, Penny begins to sew, to with needle and thread put in such stitch as Frankenstein would cringe to look upon. The sidhe knight who Rue has named Cedric does not wake, and for that, mercy; he does, however begin to breathe with more difficulty, and his all-too-revealed muscles twitch, gleam as if they'd move. Neither sidhe nor boggan thought: and what if he should come to consciousness, but be out of his mind; flail? Surely, his strength's enough to black poor Penny's helpful eye. Or worse.

Downstairs, the Ailil is at the door. The blood on the doorstep is drying. Gump, the English bulldog, must watch these goings on with bright eyes, waddley butt a wiggle. Downstairs, the Redcap ceases -- for a breath -- his gorging; turns to look at Rue, and she must feel -- they are nightmares; she is no Fiona, to be impervious to them -- what it is to be a lovely slab of meat. That look. That look is like the first salute of a dance; she knows what move comes next. This: an inch of metal, unsheathed.

But she recognizes him now, Tommy. And while Mean Tommy does not, to Rue, mean safety, Mean Tommy does not mean some fell thing that followed her out of the mist -- only a monster. A monster whose name she knows. The inch of metal vanishes again. There is no sound. Just,

"Ah. Red Tom. My temporary hunting mate. Pray you, remember napkins."

And with that, Rue -- cautious still; a beast is a beast -- goes to the door, which she will open to whatever's there: an Ailil. And a nocker coming, hard behind her. And beyond that: the bulldog, which is her quest. Seriously: it is a quest now. All things can be made into a quest if looked at properly.

ooc: *quickly swaps Nocker to being just behind Maialen?*

[Penny] [Seriously. I'm stitching you up. ...at increased botch difficulty of suck.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 6 (Success x 1 at target 8) [WP]

[Mean Tommy] At the same time Tommy is coming to the realization that there will not be a fight, the package of dry spaghetti noodles is swinging toward his mouth, and the Redcap's brutal form swings back around toward the fridge to meet it.

Crunch!

Ham next. Cheese- cheese too..

He's soon lost, back in the fridge, chasing a feeling he only ever comes close to, with all the intensity of a monk on the side of a mountain somewhere. Just a massive, hunching thing bathed in the soft light of a refrigerator. He'd never turned on the light.

[Penny] *An overabundance of gold frizz is pushed from her forehead, wispy yellow eyebrows slicked back and blood twisted in her hair as the Boggan sets her mind and works with the efficiency her kith is known for. This would be far easier were it a rug or a quilt she was set upon, but every twitch and slip of muscle in response to her probing needlepoint has another ounce of blood draining from features usually lit with a hearth's glowing warmth. Greying as she sets her mind about her task and only her task - knocking and chatter and CRUNCHing registering only peripherally as she pats the wounded Sidhe's stomach comfortingly, and gets on with it.*

[And AGAIN! LIVE!!! WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 5, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7) [WP]

[Maialen de Xove y Miasol] An Ailil: another sort of nightmare, this one ribbon-wrapped and raven-haired. Flawless. Shiori comes up the walk and the creature turns, her cloak falling back, away from her arms to simply hang from her neck. She glances across one nearly bare shoulder, the golden ribbon a satiny contrast to the moonlit gleam of her cool, pale skin, wrapped up with errant tendrils of inky hair falling in studied disarray down her back. The look is spark, sparked at the edge, dark and assured and assessing.

The door opens before the creature has opened her mouth to offer greeting or command. The hinges creak softly, just that hint of metal on metal stress, and the gentle bow of Maialen's soft little mouth has settled back into a soft little smile. The sort meant for a boggan, not a Gwydion.

There is a stutterstep moment, as if the film of her life had skipped, all flash-bulb clarity, when the soft smile slips into something - well, distinctly sharper, as gleaming-sure as the edge of Rue's storied blade. Then Rue slips by and Maialen slips inside. Stands in the foyer tugging her gloves from her hands with a finger-laced precision, dark head sweeping a glance toward the kitchen with the sound of the redcap's feast.

- she does not intrude, but instead watches the nocker as she, too, crosses the threshold and begins taking in the environs, as if she were a patron at a gallery opening - with that sense of detached admiration evident in her bearing.

[Shiori] Two Sidhe, not just one but two, first the one on the doorstep waiting casually for a chance to slip inside, and then a second, a more powerful, more impressive specimen opened the door and nodded to the pair that was there, as if deigning them fit for entry before she stepped down and away, headed off on some errand that she did not bother to elaborate on. Not that anyone expected her to do so.

She did indeed step inside, stepping through hurriedly and watching both of the sidhe with an air of caution and scrutiny that one might not normally get...not from someone you had never met before. Once within the warm walls of the homestead she gave Maialen a wide birth, moving towards the kitchen, until of course she noted the darkness within, and the nightmarish creature she recognized all to well silouhetted in the fridge light. This stopped her cold, and torn between several bad options, Shiori slid quietly into the living room, finding a seat as she looked around, hoping that Penny was here somewhere.

[Mean Tommy] A package of...something... hangs out of Tommy's mouth as he glances around again. Excitement, upon seeing Shiori- yet again that same look. The odd twist of face.. greedy, haunting. He sees weapons. Blood on snow. Mayhem in terms of mechanics and the machinery only a Nocker can fashion. It twinkles in his eye, and gives further brutishness to already savage, half made features.

Maialen.. this becomes more like trepidation. An eerie resolution to the broad, choppy lines of his form as he turns back around quickly and a slew of crunching noises leaks out from around the edges of his frame. When he hops off the stool whatever had been hanging from his mouth has long since been dropped down his gullet.

Tommy cranks his head back, as though addressing the ceiling.

"OI! PENNY! YAH GOT ... uuuh... whul... PEOPLE DOWN HEAH!"

[Rue] Cedric has paled still further -- his color, lady, it is not good -- when Penny completes her stitchings, and can be satisfied that she did her best. That she did the job well, this time. The stitches will serve, and they follow the lines made by something with teeth like a pike's. Not a wolf's. Not a hound's. Many-toothed, slender, like that. He is also drenched: sweat. He doesn't wake, but after a moment he looks less troubled. There is no more blood. (The blood that hadn't pooled quite right.) Penny's fingers are red, for her craftwork.

Maialen at the door --

A moment passed, before Rue slipped out on her errand, her quest. The look of recognition that flashes across her eyes is not similar to the one she gave Tommy, when he turned. Maialen: she knows Maialen like her bones know the ache of cold. Tommy may be what he is; Maialen is bound to what she is as well: black and silver, a banner, a rival and yet still also of a kind. Thus: that flash of a look, which follows after surprise, is touched by something that knows not whether it is worried or amused.

The look Rue gives the Nocker is a lot more permissive. This isn't Rue's house. Rue's just arrogant enough to deign -- with a glance -- too allow the pale-skinned, pale-haired Nocker entrance, and besides, this isn't Rue's home, and she doesn't forget it. Says, over her shoulder (again),

To Maialen. "The Mistress is upstairs."

Then: which car has Gump? Not the one with the star-eyed mortal. Not the expensive, sleek creature of metal. So: another. Rue peers through windows until she finds it, then says, "Hello, dog. Gump, I've heard you named. Come. Your mistress wants you."

She'd talk to humans just the same.

[Mean Tommy] (*test)

[Mean Tommy] (Posting for the Penny, as she can't get the site to work)

*A furl of breath from hard bitten lips, and Penny rises with a hearty 'Oofta' to her small broad feet.  Stained and spattered like a bloody war veteran rather than the giddy play-smith she was known as.   

The Sidhe drew ragged breath, and Penny's heart danced joyous.  Ragged breath was breath still, and so the fair creature lived.  A redcap's voice howls brutish and wicked through the floorboards, and the Boggan spares a moment more to sweep Cedric's sweat damp hair from his brow reassuringly, before bustling to greet her guests.   

The voice that answers the nightmare contains barely enough sun to dance dust in, stairs creaking in familiar complaint as the flustered Boggan calls.* And you one of them TerribleTommy!  Eat everything but the artichokes I bid you! Is the fairest lady with you?  Her companion has been set to rights, best I know how... He sleeps fitful.

[Maialen de Xove y Miasol] To Rue, Maialen merely inclines her head in a lady's courtesy. The fineness of the gesture does nothing to ease the sharpness of her smile, the intensity of the survey she gives the other Sidhe, head to toe and toe to head, faceted eyes drinking light as they linger on the sheathed blade at the Gwydion's hip.

Maialen's own weapon is no more than ornament: a lady's jeweled dagger, tucked against the tapered waist of her cinched stays, just before her long skirts flare out at the hip.

The nocker goes briefly walkabout, entering the kitchen, daring the gullet noises of a redcap mid-digestion. By the time she has returned, the Ailil has removed one soft kid gloves from one soft white hand, and is working on the second. She's standing, still, cloak thrown back from her shoulders, the hanging from her neck by little more than a gleaming broach. Rue - is a knight-errant, wears her weapons openly, quests for a bulldog named Gump, who is wanted within. Maialen is seems little more than a court-ornament, her function wholly decorative.

Shiori returns and takes a seat in the living room; Maialen - who remains standing - turns and watches the nocker with unerring precision until the latter takes a seat, then returns to the delicate work of tugging off her fitted gloves, one finger at a time. The silence remains unbroken until Tommy's bellow from the kitchen.

The creature looks up, brief, sure, lambent down the long hallway. Considers that the Boggan is lucky the redcap has merely eaten the contents of her refridgerator, rather than the thing itself. Then cants her head and listens to the sounds from above, the bright, ringing response from the boggan to the redcap's bellow.

The truth is, she goes no further than the foyer - the living room - unless bid further in.

[Mean Tommy] As her voice bounces down the stairs, Tommy's eyes swing from Maialen to the door, then back to the ceiling as he makes his way toward the living room. Soon enough, his razors-on-sand voice and the wicked lines of his form join the gathered Fae in the living room.

"DUNNO! s'like... THEAH'S 'COUPLEAH FAIR LADIES- sah... YEAH. SHE'S PROLLY HEAH!"

It grinds from walls and threatens eardrums, but its at least soon over. He doesn't approach Maialen past a certain distance.. would show Rue the same personal space. His black gaze may scatter toward the hem of her dress, might strike against dainty feet.. but such glances are thankfully brief.

[Mean Tommy] ((Notice to players: Punkin's computer won't load the site anymore. So she's out.))

[Rue] ooc: and, alas, punkin's server has conked on her, so punkin says: she greets everybody, Penny washing up and insisting on making everyone french toast, before falling asleep with her bulldog in a kitchen chair.

[Shiori] Safe, for the moment she was safe. Free of Tommy's possessive gaze, and a reasonable distance away from Maialen Shiori sat with her long red digits clasped in her lap as she sat on the edge of the sofa. Beady eyes darted this way and that watchful and wary as she sat in a place she had hoped would be safe, would be quiet for a while, instead it was full of people, people she didnt know, she might have tried to get out again, but the door had so many people infront of it and beyond it, it seemed like an insurmountable obstacle. So for now she remained her gaze cast around the house, assessing, appraising.

Tommy's voice reverberates through the house, hell it reverberates through the waif like woman's bones and causes her to shiver involuntarily. Fragile is the way many people might think of her, easily beaten, easily broken, they might be right in many ways as well...but no one had so far tested her.

She seemed quite happy not to be tested.

[Rue] ooc: JINX, DIRGE.

[Mean Tommy] ((Ha ha! Also, I'm sorry but I too am fading fast. I will have a big day tomorrow so the earlier sleep comes the better. Thanks for the scene folks!))

Tommy, for his part, doesn't hang around for long. At least not right there. In the open.. in the middle of everything. Rather, he withdraws back into the kitchen to wage war on Penny's stock of food.

[Rue] ooc: *cracks knuckles* *uses skillz for next post, SKILLZ*

[Rue] This is what happens, then. Let us cover a measure of minutes, many: Penny, sunshine itself, waddling downstairs, cheerful face etched in weariness -- cheer not faded, yet, yet. Her fingers are bloody, and they are so for a reason: she washes up, she bids Maialen come in and there is no doubting her sincerity. Not Penny's. Not Penny, who owns this quaint cottage in Little Ukraine. Penny is all welcome. Penny does not allow Shiori to stay separated from the rest of the kith: in the dark living room. No; Shiori is gathered up into the kitchen. They're all gathered up into the kitchen, more or less. During this interlude:

Rue returns, the English bulldog at her heels. A good hound, which knows how to obey. At her heels, the fat, squat thing looks indeed like a hound -- like it might reflect some of Rue's splendour back at her; like it might hunt the white hart through woods that are gold of a lost age that will never be seen again and with its teeth make a noble showing. That is illusion; it is indeed reflection, the moon to the sun, the lake to the stars.

Their hostess begins to droop, however: it is obvious. Rue is is arrogant: "Penny, sleep. I'm sure -- " Here, her gaze fixes (skewers) Shiori in place. Pin through a butterfly; how intense she is, the Gwydion. Her eyes are bluer than a dream of far-off skies, understand, a brilliance unsought for years because it is unremembered. Remembered, it would be sought: people would die; people would tear out their hearts. "What is your name?"

The question is not abrupt. It is not even yet ungentle. It just is. While she awaits an answer, that she may finish her sentence, her eyes leave Shiori's. Meet Maialen's, instead. Again. They are different sides of the same coin: the one so bright and sharp, so moon-radiant; the other so dark-loved, so soft and shadowed. For her, a measured moment. Then:

"I would consult your expertise. Such as it is."

[Shiori] Penny had been kind, Penny had brought her to the kitchen where Shiori had thought there might be some food left, even after the redcap was done with the place, but no...the mistress of the house had flagged and retreated off to bed leaving the Nocker trapped in a room with two rather austere and proud looking Sidhe her eyes darting between the pair warily.

"Shiori." She said in response to Rue's question, she does not ask for a name in response, its as if she had been picked up bodily the way she had been sitting in the living room, and brought into the kitchen, she sat on a stool, perched there all leanness and caution hands folded upon her lap as she tried not to hunch over, tried not to become as small a target as possible. "These stools must have been sanded with a wet noodle they are so uncomfortable." She said to no one really, more of a musing to herself.

[Maialen de Xove y Miasol] Time moves. Penny washes off the blood and insists on making French toast. One presumes the abiding hunger of the redcap ensures that he hoovers up all the crumbs from his fridge-raiding escapade. The pair of sidhe do not belong in such a bright, cheerful, domestic space, but there they remain. Somewhere between dark living room and bright warm kitchen, the Ailil divests herself of her velvet cloak and is left in her court-garb, a dress in half-a-dozen half-remembered shadows of gold. The gold of morning and the gold of sunlight-on-dew, the gold of the Asturian hills and the gold of King Midas' broken heart, all these a supple contrast to the black tangle of her hair, the soft, dreaming white of her skin.

There is an art to consuming food while wearing lacings tight enough to compress one's ribs. To crack them. One simply does not.

Before Penny retreats, the Ailil presses an invitation on her. To tea, some spring afternoon.

Rue's eyes are skywon, skyworn; Maialen's are - somewhere at the dark heart of them - blue as well, but they are nothing of the sky. It's earth instead, forged and polished, cut and cut and cut until the light scatters through them like the heart of a perfectly polished sapphire, a dark, distinctive shadow of the ill-remembered dream of that perfect sky, irradiant only when the light finds them; or when her eyes find you.

"Would you?" returns the Ailil, perfectly formed dark brows rising over her faceted eyes. They linger at the apex, a sort, wry curl to the corner of her fine mouth. She draws a breath in, shoulders curving above the hard line of her stays. The smile lingers, a brief, darkeyed glance at the nocker in that moment. Then: Rue. " - then let us walk."

[Rue] Shiori, the Nocker says, followed by the obligatory verbal diarrhea. The comment on the Penny's chair passes by, although Rue's fine eyebrows draw together. There is the distinct possibility that she looks upon Penny as hers, in a way. Hers to protect. Hers to use. Hers. And if so, she finds the Nocker's remark on chairs that might well be boggan crafted to be in poor taste. Nockers are known for artistry, for the flaw that haunts every thing they create, not for taste. Shiori, the Nocker says, and then speaks on. Rue listens, nods gravely, says this:

"Shiori, then. And a carpenter?" The gift of her name is casual. Largesse:
"I am called Rue. While Penny sleeps, you'll be her two hands and give her rest. You'll put these dishes away; will you not?"

Her gaze flicks toward the redcap. Lake-light, dripping off a blade: a star there. Then flicks back to Shiori. There may be assurance there, of a sort; that none would mollest her in this house -- at present. That while she gave Penny aid there'd be no danger. The sidhe are not merely arrogant and haughty, after all. They're the Dreaming's darlings, the Dreaming's kings and queens. They're glory, and they don't try for it: they may seek greater glory through conquest or poison or quest, but they need not try for it. It is there. It is theirs. Even through dislike, it is undeniable.

It is not a kind thing.

"I would," she tells her fellow, her host-sister, the Unseelie lady: carefully, a confirmation. There is the thread of some dark, vibrant thing in Rue's voice. She doesn't conceal it. What Rue conceals is precious little. Her shoulders are still bare, her fine, Gentrywoman's coat drying on the back of one of those chairs Shiori commented on: a sweep of wonder, dense with shadow, the spilling of some thing's blood stiffening its folds. "Let us go upstairs. Not out into the night's airs."

Then: a polite, casual gesture. I follow.

[Shiori] Rue spoke to the woman at last, asking more then her name, more then an expectant inquiry, but sadly that moment of conversation was simply to ask a question...and then to demand action, to expect her to serve here, to see to the Boggans household as she sleeps. The white brows of Shiori's eyes furrow and draw together in a way that might almost be considered comical in the way they matched Rue's motions from only moments before.

"I am as much a carpenter as you are a savante." She said as she responded to the question. "I simply know quality when I see it, or in this case...feel it." She did not however rise, she did not bow and scrape and thank the woman for the opportunity to serve. She simply remained seated and watchful as the two Sidhe considered taking their conversation elsewhere, away from common ears.

A brief frown crosses the Nockers pouty lips as the two plan on making their exit, a glance caste between the two, one light, one dark, but there is no request to remain apart of the conversation. If anything one might think that Shiori was simply waiting for a chance to bolt, to escape these haughty and demanding creatures, beautiful and terrible thought they were.

[Maialen de Xove y Miasol] Listen to the whisper of her skirts on the stairs, soft and susserent as the wind through the leaves of a half-remembered tree. The swaying sort, whip-long arms and fine, deeply cut leaves, gnarled roots knuckled deep into the heart of a still forest pool. Maialen climbs before Rue, lifts her skirts, gives her bright, sharper mirror the view of her back. The tight, tapering laces, the raven's wing tangle of her falling hair, the mirrored memory of their half-forgotten grace. Here they are in a boggan's house, exiles, all still and sure.

The Ailil catches up her soft skirts with a soft white hand; there are circlets of gold - three - interwoven, moving like liquid at her wrist, inset with some dark, glittering stone whose name is long-since lost to all human tongues. And now has a view of the back of her hair, here and there a twist of pearls is evident through the complexly arranged disarray.

The scent of blood is still in the air; and the truth is, the Ailil follows it. Like a shark, you see. There's something broken, close.

[Rue] The proudest house of all the proud houses: Gwydion. Yet: do they not have reason? Shiori dislikes sidhe. Many commoners do, alas. And Rue does not understand it. Does not understand this new age at all: has their mortality polluted them? Will it pollute her, as it polluted the house Scathatch? This is one of her fears, which she keeps close-as-cards to her heart of hearts: doesn't wear that fear on her sleeve, although it might be there for any to find. Rue doesn't wait to see Shiori sigh or grumble or curse as only a Nocker might and clean up after Penny, but she does nod once: acknowledgment of some Thing.

Then she ascends after Maialen. Rue is not wearing skirts. Rue is black-clad: Rue is burning, in her dark clothes; her trousers, her tall boots, the girdle jewelled with something like the iridescence found in some tarnished silvers, but more radiant, and fine: a pattern there, hammered out of old. Before.

Maialen goes straight for blood -- so: she know what room to turn into. The door might still be open. The knight, wan and palely loitering, the smell of burning ozone, silver, an arm over his face now. Rue's a step behind her.

"Do you know his face? Do you know that smell?"

Ah. More of it than just blood.

[Shiori] Shiori glowered after the Sidhe as they made their exit, her hands clasped upon the edge of the seat like some impertinent child her gaze trying to burn a hole through Rue as she walked off, intent on more important things, Sidhe things of course.

But as they left Shiori dismounted the stool at last and moved toward the sink, grumbling as she went. They could hear the water start to run as they ascended the staircase. It would seem that despite her trepidation and fear, even with her doubts and her displeasure Shiori had still moved to fulfill the task set before her by Rue, furious grumbling not withstanding, oh the things they would hear if they had only been in range to hear them.

Its a few more minutes as they secluded themselves before Shiori, glowering and now hands wet, headed for the front door, still hungry after all that as well.

[Maialen de Xove y Miasol] A sharp glance is made sidelong; the Ailil sweeps her skirts askance and slips into the room. She seems a softer creature altogether, made to recede into the moon's shadow, winterborn, winter's maid. Footsteps soft into the sickroom, stark with the smell of blood and -

- her round face is still as she studies the young knight, impassive, eyes hooded, dark lashes soot against pale cheeks. This is where she hardens: in the soft shoulders, in the curving spine, slipping through the door, stalking through the room soft-footed to the head of the bed. She does not touch the stranger, but she - stands close, half-perches on the edge of the bed. Looks for a cool cloth to sooth him.

Inhales.

Eyes closed with it; as if there were some vintage in the air to be savored.

"No," returns the lady of the Ailil. She does not know his face. But she reaches out, pale fingers cool on the arm he has flung over his head. Gentle. " - and no. What is it?"

[Maialen de Xove y Miasol] "Who is he?"

[Rue] "He is Cedric of Liam." That's all she says, at first. Allows Maialen to absorb it. Attach the name to the slumbering knight's face, his pained features. His arm has been recently near-devoured. Penny did her job well, after a bungled first attempt that will stay between the bogan and the unconscious knight and the floorboards and the pillow his head lays upon. The stitches look well-made. There is a minimal of swelling, although he is soaked in sweat, his hair, draggled.

Now, Rue and Maialen can't be called friends. Maialen is not a name synonymous with trust (verity [honor]), and Rue knows her beyond this one city. This city that has her -- tonight, at least -- tired. Edged. Her sword might now be sheathed, but she is not: she is an unsheathed thing, now; glory's elegant, coldly radiant weapon. Doubt that the stars burn. Doubt that the birds fly. Doubt that fish breathe air. Before: doubt that she is dangerous, that once upon a time she lead armies and slew dragons.

Her throat works. Her throat is: too slender for the legend of what she is -- too delicate. Too fine, really: and yet. The moment passes, and she adds, voice low, touched by rue: "And I know not. He came from the lost holding. He asked after it as if it hadn't vanished. As if it were still fought-for, as if the fighting were just-now, somewhere. He fell out of a mist -- as you see him. This smell: it was all about, and it stays."

[Shiori] There is a slam downstairs, marking the departure of the Nocker, silence is all that follows as the two continue their conversation over the form of the sleeping, healing fae.

[Thanks for the scene guys!]

[Rue] [Thank you! Sorry again there wasn't more interaction and stuff. Next time!]

[Shiori] [Yep! have fun *G*]

[Maialen de Xove y Miasol] "You have heard the story of Eonavia de Cantábrica?" Maialen's slight weight depresses the edge of the bed; her fingers graze the edges of the well-mended wound, soft and cool and light against the feverish flesh. Little comfort, there - just a hint of awareness beyond the fevered confines of a wounded sleep that another is without. This is where she belongs, isn't it - the lady of the manor, comforting the wounded, drifting through the corridors, offering the grace of a slip-stream little smile to the fatigued warriors, to -

The creature looks up from her place, back at Rue, the pearls woven into her hair gleaming against the dark tress, dancing with every subtle movement of her slender frame. "A castle, cursed, that appears from the mists once every hundred years. Sometimes men and women - even knights, even barons - wander in, but no one comes out," a brief, narrow twist of her bare shoulders. "untouched. Surrounded by mists. One night every one hundred years. From dusk to dawn.

"He's marked by it." The Ailil remarks, assured in this as she is in - everything. " - whatever took the rest of them. I think it will not let him go so easily."

[Rue] [pausation!]