The King's Court

[Paroxysm]

Repulsive, twisted monster - the thought burned in his mind as he regarded the monstrosity that stalked thoughtlessly through his courtroom.

It was an old thing - one of the oldest, perhaps. Its skin was leathery and grey with festering, maggot-ridden wounds that no mortal thing could have hoped to endure; indeed, anything less than what this creature was would have long ago gave way to the rot and returned to dust. Not this thing, though - not this creature of the abstract, with its yellow teeth and dim, indifferent eyes. The wounds were just a part of itself, a feature: a descriptive quality that manifested when the creature’s body first coalesced.

Odd as it was, this monster was not unique, powerful, yes, but there were more, more, even, that represented the same concept it did, and more, yet, that represented a different concept entirely. This one, however, was special, and stupid, unresponsive and directionless . . .

The man, sitting atop a throne of dark, polished wood, lifted his hand and, with an application of will, dismissed the beast from his sight; it obliged and vanished momentarily.

. . . But its lack of direction was what made it the perfect tool. Truthfully, it had been a struggle to get the beast to acknowledge him as no manner of attack, no poke nor prod, produced so much as a squeal of displeasure or obedience, but when he whispered to it, when he had mind to speak to it, it listened and obeyed. It was the great shaper of his lands, the subtle and guiding force that had grown, rather than built, much of his stronghold.

The creature’s departure relieved him more than he would ever care to admit. It was measureless and foreign, and he had no delusions as to just how shaky his position as master over the thing was. He was not sure if it could even be killed, but, surely, he would have to find out one day. Preferably at the expense of someone he did not much care for.

Stifling a yawn, the man shifted in his throne and cast a leg over an armrest before lazily sliding down in his seat; he stared down the hall that lead up to his courtroom and awaited the familiar trappings of his day to unfold.

Such was the life of a king.

[Igraine]

"My king..." The scent of death was common place around this creature. She was the harold of death among the living and it was something she took particular glee in doing. She looked pretty, unless you pissed her off -- then her true colors were revealed. She preferred to look pretty thought, it was the scent of death that always gave her away in the end.

"My king, we have a gift. A gift from the Lady Igraine." He had sent them on the wild chase after the little witch. What did he expect them to get for him? He'd just asked for them to find her and let her know of his proposal. None of them had wagered on the demon in her presence.

The Banshee held out the lock of wheat gold hair with her head bowed. It was tied together with a piece of black ribbon found on some poor dead man's body. It glittered in the faint light of the room, flickering like ancient gold in a long forgotten chest. She could hear the scuttling in the dark corners of the room. Her breatheren were moving closer to see the pretty thing that she held out to their Lord.

"Jack sends his regards and this..." With her other hand she held out a knife coated in Igraine's blood. This was the knife of the tall deep red eyed man that had cut Igraine. The sight of this and the inherent power wrapped within it, both from the knife and the blood, caused all of the scuttling to stop and a lot of scrabbling to get away to begin. The Banshee had a wicked little grin on her pretty face, but it was cast down away from the King.

She really enjoyed toying with her bretheren. Such simple minded creatures, the lot of them.

"What do you require next, my King? She has escaped into the Faerie Realm with that...that...half-demon." The Banshee spat on the floor, still holding out the relics that she knew the king would want to inspect. If he smelled the hair, he would smell Igraine, the scent of death wouldn't linger in his presence for long.

[Bæn'Deyanira]

"Country folk warn all weary travelers
To steer well clear of the dark forest road.
Legends fill the hushed yew wood with terrors
Lurking in the grey mists and dim shadows.
Wicked creatures strive to lead men astray
And force them to join their black wanderings."

The forest was dark and deep. Where shadows crept and 'ever starlight kissed. Only shards of moonlight managed to scatter down through the cathedral of trees, highlighting a path leading through the old oak grove. Many had been warned not to enter these forests, stories and legends of hideous beasts ready and eager to snare with their long gnarled limbs. To drag them into the earth. Make them perish to a graven kiss. Every now and then mindless small humans skipped along this path, even leaving it to the tisks and tuts of their parents. Stomping on the rings of mushrooms, laughing as if no evil or wrath would befall them. How mistaken could they be?

None of the Unseelie had qualms with making sure these small humans became 'missed', feared as lost in the darkness of grove and wilderness. The maws of a wolf would be far gentler than the stranglehold of the ancient trees who obeyed their command. How the earth could swallow them whole, leaving only a shoe or ribbon to mark what the larger humans feared. Every now and then they would hear the echoes of names rebounding through the forest, the wreaths of flowers left to mourn make minutes of amusement to pluck and wither. Covering over the footsteps with an unnoticeable breeze, gathering the leaves to seal their fates. Laughing with nature as they walked in circles, lost to the world they knew. Stepping into a nightmare where they would wish themselves dead.

...dead. Just another soul lingering, another body never found. Humans were a means to their own end and the Unseelie despised them with their vile, dark essences. Any misfortune enough to incur the wrath of the hordes were gathered up and taken for a ride into the lands of the fey. Their feeble minds gripping fear and insanity with next to no force, manipulation- only that none of them seemed to adore pain very well. Bæn'Deyanira could never really understand it, but she loved to inflict it at every given chance. Beating... pinching... biting... those inflicted to a death that left a sweet taste upon her tongue that no honeysuckle could ever compare to. She drank their fear as if it were elderflower wine. The genocide of these creatures would be her ultimate glory, what she strived in with every mortal death ushered by her toxic breath and hateful hands. Her prey, her food for thought...her bringing of their death.

She never thought twice of kidnapping infants from their beds, taking them back to the darkness of her lands only to turn them into hideous little creations. To be her slaves, bring her more children to advance the Unseelie Hordes under her command in honour of her King. She never thought twice about smothering them either. First pinching them hard so they awoke screaming in their beds only to be met with a cold cruel hand or the thickness of their covers rising in the night, b y white hands and pale-face. Moving over to smother... before the world would go black. Bæn'Deyanira had no qualms of magically taking their voices and sight so they would be mute until their last dying breath, branded a faeries curse to their family, driven to exile.

Taking their eyes had always been a special treat. Whatever was prized the most by the family, beauty or wealth... it too would turn to ashes. Fade and die before their eyes. Wilting the harvest, souring the milk, animals mysteriously drained of all essence, blood and organ. Laying there like dehydrated skins and bones, all in the course of the night. Mere parlor tricks but enough to show displeasure of their tarnishing presences. She had no tolerance of humans; none were looked upon with kindness or sympathy. Just abhorrence of the darkest nature.

As far as Bæn'Deyanira thought, there was no peace amongst the Unseelie and the Seelie, she would do everything in her power to prevent these feebleminded whims. She craved death and death would be what the Court would have, no mistake, no mercy, no exceptions. She was of the Nightmare Fey, full of envy, greed and malevolence; it was not possible for any to mistake her kin for everything they touched waned and emaciated. They would starve before the winter came and any who remained would be met with the sidhe of the wild hunt. Scattered up with the shadows and dispersed amongst the stars. Creatures of the dreaming- believing even the Dreaming has deserted them, not wanting to attempt the merging of the Dreaming with the Mortal World unlike the Seelie.

Wanting nothing of the reclamation of Arcadia, as far as she was concerned- she would rather see it burn. Banality, the antithesis of Glamour. It is the power of human disbelief and mundanity, it is characterized and given strength by a lack of imagination or hope. It is harmful, even deadly, to Changelings, Chimera, and all creatures similarly composed of Glamour (an active energy which leads to active effects: Glamour is the stuff that dreams are made of. Much like Quintessence. The most simplistic definition is that Glamour is creativity, though some prefer to push it in further directions, as they argue it could also come from hope, faith, belief in the unbelievable, fear, uncertainty, or spontaneity).

Nothing lasts forever, and the smallest spin of the wheel of fortune/misfortune could mean their extinction or the extinction of mankind- she preferred the latter. Passion before duty and honor is a lie. The world holds no place for ancient virtues like honor, now a flimsy thin veil of paint to cover the emptiness behind a great deal of traditions. Only the truth could be attained though one's own self interest. To deny the passions is to deny the Unseelie essence. This leads to stagnation. A profanity to the Unseelie Court. Samhain to Beltaine were to be her times of glory amongst the mortals. To hunt, seek and destroy.

Her time of darkness and the hunt would soon begin...winter approached on his icy chariots to asyhxiate the embers of the homely hearth.

[Paroxysm]

An initial look of disinterest crossed the king’s face but was thrown aside with a wide, almost sinister smile when he heard the word ‘gift.’ This was why he liked his precious pets subjects! They always knew how best to bring a smile to his face - to go above and beyond whatever task had been assigned - and such service was to be rewarded, eventually. He would have to think on that.

Without warning, the king stood from his throne and claimed both the lock of hair and the blood covered knife; he studied them underneath a hard gaze for a moment and then brought the hair close to his face. There was no need for it, of course, but he inhaled its fragrance and laughed to himself. Inherent power or not, there was always the chance of these items not being authentic and that the Banshee was simply trying to prostrate herself like an attention starved mutt begging a callous master’s favor. Or maybe setting Jack up for a fall; honestly, either would have matched well with his court’s intrigue and been quite the spectacle to watch.

“Ah,” he almost laughed again when the Banshee pressed for her next assignment. She could have asked for anything and he’d have happily given it, at least temporarily.

“I’m shocked,” the king admitted with surprising warmth to his tone and in complete disregard to the Banshee’s question. “I would have taken full credit for these treasures,” he quirked his brow curiously at the Banshee and then shrugged, “but we’ll leave that for later, yes? --Hrm, the demon will need to die, of course, he’s a negative influence, really, and we can’t have that, can we?”

Shuffling the bloodied knife to the other hand, the king jabbed an index finger sharply into the air and made several jagged and slashing motions before lowering the digit and muttering something incomprehensible to himself. A faint light surrounded the objects and then faded without a trace. These two relics would prove useful later and he needed the power - and the magic they represented - preserved for future use. With them as a catalyst and focus, Igraine would have no hope for escape . . . She would be his, eventually.

“No, no - what am I thinking?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the same hand he had used to gesture. “Force is no fun. A trap! A trap with bait - Rivenfelde, that’s right. We’ll use the girl.”

He smiled at the Banshee.

“Have someone fetch her for me, won’t you? We'll have Igraine and her wretched mutt come to us.”

With the relics still in hand, the king made to return to his throne but stopped just short; he looked over his shoulder and added: “No need to be gentle.”

[Igraine]

"Little Sebilla Rivenfelde, Master? Perfect plan, sire. Perfect..." Cliona let out a shrill cackle and pulled her cloak over her face, shrouding her in deep shadow.

"I know just the person to get her, my liege. My sister Bæn'Deyanira is most suited to the task. She will show no quarter and I hear that she is back from the world of men." She tilted her head as if listening and then nodded fervently. "I believe the Rakshasas is back as well if you want it to go as well. I will go inform my sister of your orders."

With a swirl of her mist grey cloak she was gone and hunting for Bæn'Deyanira. It didn't take her long to find her fellow Banshee. She landed behind her and kept her distance. They were sisters through their powers, though not in practice. They would just as soon kill one another as work together. Cliona was named after their ancient queen, before they were pulled together under the Unseelie King's rule centuries ago. It was Cliona's quick wit that allowed her to realize how good Bæn'Deyanira would be at retrieving the little human Rivenfelde.

"Bæn'Deyanira, our king has a demand that you would be well suited for." Cliona kept her mist grey cloak wrapped around her body, the scent of death heavy around her, and she loved it.

"He wants to set a trap for that Fae Queen Igraine Lothair. He wants to kidnap the human girl Sebilla Rivenfelde to flush the Fae Queen out of hiding. You're the best of us at kidnapping. The King wants her as soon as possible." Cliona kept her distance and circled Bæn'Deyanira, always keeping her within sight.

It wouldn't be good to die today, she'd just been given praise by the King.

[Bæn'Deyanira]

When nothing is sure, everything is possible...

With her came the jingling of silver bells and the faintest laugh that could easily be thought of as child. Lyrics singing out from the shadows, the darkness- all around them that it was noy possible to pinpoint an exact location other than, legion. Vocally, the haunting tune was unnaturally beautiful, but the undertone something far more dark than a mortals perception, to them it would be enchantingly captivating, all else, empty. "We be tinklin' to the sounds of silv'r bells, over dale to the valley below. Come all ye childr'n, sons and pretty daughters. Come to the marshes edge, and be cursed by its waters!!" For most the limericks of the fey never made sense, but they always had darker meanings behind the cadence of enchantment. Had not been for the traitorous one, she would never have bothered to stain her essence with the stench of these mortals, they would have lived, drank and been merry; perhaps they would have even lived longer, much longer than this cold night.

Apparitions danced in the foggy shadows, through the night. Even the clouds took formidable shapes of horrific faces with gaping maws opening wide, and burning eyes where the moonlight shone through, chasing the moon like the wild hunt. Just because these foul creatures didn't see the Unseelie, the presence would be felt with a chilling, artic embrace of winter and death. The wind began to pick up, starting with a muted moan to that of a banshee wail. Shrieking, howling and gnashing. The violence of it would sting their flesh as if stung by invisible bees, forming in large swollen reddened welt across face and exposed limbs. Had all thought that they knew something of pain... pain inflicted by mortals was one thing, but the pain inflicted by the Fey was beyond that of comprehension. They who spurred the wrath of her kin and King, they would experience the ire of Bæn'Deyanira soon enough.

All good things come to those who wait, unfortunately so do all bad things. Flying from the perpetual embrace of night, a lone figure appeared silhouetted in pure darkness where not even the light could reach; it rebounded off her figure as if repelled by something so abysmal even the elements feared it. Slowly walking through the forest, feeling its dampness to the balls of her bare feet, not even taking bother to glance sideward as one of the soldiers rapidly approached her with scythe, held tightly within both her hands, lips pursed to an innocent expression. Swinging it towards the man's head, a shrill giggle escaping as the blade ceased only short of his throat... only to be met with a hand tight around the throat. Her flesh was more pale than winters snow- her grip a tourniquet that couldn't be broken even as other soldiers rushed to pull her back.

"Now, now. That is no way to greet a..... Lady. Shall my lips kiss you; give you that....sssssshhhh hush-a-bye baby?" Words so cold, and cruel, sharper than any icicle, more shrill than the highest of zeniths. The soldier in her grip began to freeze, splinters of ice grating over skin in visions of indigo, blue and black veins. The expression displayed on his face was pure of horror as he tried with all his might to break free. The others with their beefy-man hands upon her began to follow suit. Fingers began to crack and snap, breaking at the knuckles and joints, some even being forced back as if something powerful grabbed them, pushing them back hard against the wrists; screams infiltrated the streams as shadowy tentacles ripping and shredded, reaching out from her form like the legs of spiders. To the one caught in her grasp, he would be nothing more than a block of frozen stone, ice rapid engulfing to the feet before spreading out with greedy vines along the ground, killing and wilting all in their paths.

Turning slowly, the hood of her cloak pulled down over her face, had it not been for the hand none of them would know a creature of substance manifested. "Do you not know, that YOUR kind should stick to the light of day, that of spring and summer? This is OUR time, and YOUR kind shall pay for the intrusion". It was here that a sense of familiarity broke her attentions from the ice-shattered remains of the soldiers. Now Bæn'Deyanira's attention was focused upon her sister, appearing from behind her, though keeping her distance betwixt- however, she approached Cliona swifter than what her own shadow could. Face to face, hand casually relaxed at her side, scythe resting comfortably upright so that the blade hung above her head like a black crescent moon.

A cruel smile played across her hidden features, her bitter-cold energy still held, concentrated around her form like a death’s arms. Achromic rivulets of her silken hair billowed in the gnarled caress of wind-talon, like blizzard chasing darkness, even the moon as it bleed its 'white light' down upon her, paled in silvery glow in comparison to her tones, that it almost gave her an illuminated-glow to appearance, frozen, ghastly yet oddly beautiful. Black eyes intense as her head declined in obeisance, though sending out the icy tendrils of her energies to block any possible means of anyone or anything overhearing her sister, just in case the woods ears had placed their intentions to the macabre businesses of the banshee- from the nosy faeries to the inquisitive elf, or the demons who plague the living with their dreariness and shoddy glories. Their business would remain, strictly, THEIR business.

"The King's will, is but my command, let my scythe serve his swift justice..." Bestowing a flamboyant bow, as hand gripped scythe tighter and black eyes looked through the cascades of white flowing over her face, with unnerving effulgence. The banshee's voice like wind whistling through flutes of broken glass and shattered shards of nightmare... "And what of, Oberon the chief guardian of the Shimmer Lands, that pretentious clump of swamp moss? May I end his pitiful excuse? Or am I just to retrieve this....mortal brat-faced rug-rat?" her voice sounded hopeful of the second question, for nothing would please her more than ridding the twilight realm that pompous fool.

[Igraine]

Cliona laughed and it sounded shrill on the frozen night air, not unlike the unearthly howling of cats in the darkest hours of the night. She looked at her sister and tipped her head, listening to her carefully, but avidly aware of where her scythe lay at all times.

"Oberon deserves plenty of punishment for his...enforcement of our banishment." She laughed again, a truely disturbing sound for anyone that might be listening besides her sister Banshee. "Unfortunately I was only asked to find someone to catch the sniveling Xanathi brat. The King wants her alive, as bait, but the condition in which she arrives is...negotiable. She must remain whole though, Sister." Cliona raised one long slender finger, tipped with a very long and extremely sharp blood red nail. "The King wants her whole, but the amount of blood she loses or the bruises she takes? Negotiable."

Cliona giggled and bit her bottom lip, excitement toward the hunt, the thrill of the catch boiling up inside her like a corrosive acid. She wanted to go with her Sister, but the King had expressly told her to find someone to fetch the delicious human girl. She wasn't allowed to go, and while she would like to, she was wary of going against King Pendaran's express wishes. He was on top of the heap for a reason, and she knew he'd killed a few dozen of their kind to get there.

He had been at the head of the Unseelie Court for as long as most of them could remember, and those few that remembered his rise were unwilling to try to unseat him.

"I would go with you but I was told to find someone else to be trusted with this task. He wants her soon. You will have to watch out for her demonic twin. He guards her closely and it will take some manipulation to separate them."

Cliona clacked one sharp red nail against her teeth, which in the current light made them seem a lot sharper than they might have been. She looked at her sister with a sadistic twinkle in her pale blue eyes.

"Fetch her quickly, as quickly as you dare. Don't get caught or you will be killed, if not by the brother then by our King for your failure."

[Bæn'Deyanira]

The banshee simply smirked, the cold-shivers of a smile curving over frozen apertures...cruel and malign. Snickering with a shrill disharmony of evil flutes and enchantment, shaking her head as streams of white flowed with the motion, like snakes within the talons of wind. "Ah, ye of such little faiths! I shall bring the brat back... whole... just not as whole-some as before!" her voice raspy, skeletal choirs devoid of breath, eyes mimicking the toxic effulgence given by her sister except hers were pure opalescent in hues, with no black to distinguish between the iris and pupil- and her skin was the colour of ice. The King would have his pound of flesh, there was no doubt about it, akin to Lilith, Bæn'Deyanira was an expert at nabbing children, using enchantment, glamour and the magick of Unseelie illusion, elaborately woven as an elaborate web to snare her prey. Apart from potent Chimerstry, Winter Court Sorceress (of all the elements attune to winter: Cold, Ice, Death, Destruction, Corruption and Coercion. But also Pain and the Darkest Passion), Entropomancy (Sleep, Decay, Darkness, Wither), Unseelie/Dark Thaumaturgy, Keening (typically the infamous Banshee Scream/Howl/fear infusion), and these were but a slither of the devious inherent at her icy disposal.

Bowing elegant, scythe sweeping backwards at the decline of her shoulders motioning forwards and the perfect recede of her spine and slant of hips; sardonic but beautiful in its act. She would not stand about exchanging words for orders were clear, to post haste and procure the girl before the Unseelie King. "Her, demonic twin is of no concern, though I am sure he is a proficient swordsman, but I am yet to meet acquaintance with a warrior who can soothe the blade of death- for death is swift and merciless." Returning to upright grandeur, nodding her head once before the frosty mists began to encircle, the smile never fading from lips the colour of drowned sailors, lily blossoms outlined with black. Rising, serpents of bitter frost, entwining around her lithe form, twisting and weaving until she faded completely from sight... leaving nothing but the echoes of sinister laughing and the tormented whispers of abandoned souls... lullabies of the damned, sweet to the ears who were lured deep into those dark forests by promises of forbidden love, lust and destruction.

Bæn'Deyanira would return with the girl-child, and should her brother attempt to intervene, she would bring back his eviscerated head; another macabre trophy for the King’s halls. One of the countless she had yet to bring him- after all he adored gifts from felled adversaries. All the dark and delightful thoughts that arose in her mind, all the multitudes of possibilities to snare the child, her choices varied from beguilement, allure or malevolence. She wondered how beautiful the creatures blood would be, trickling over her hands and how the flesh would dangle from her claws? Pretty little girl child, would soon learn never to trust even the most innocent of forms, one far more innocent than sweet cherubim. More beautiful than the wildest of flowers that bloomed in the labyrinth of woodlands, where the Fae are said to dance and their haunting music entices the wanderer to their demise, beneath the earth, beneath the waters.

[OoC: Leaving the scene to enter here:
http://forums.sordidystopia.com/viewtopic.php?f=42&t=941]

[Paroxysm]

Jack's arrival was telegraphed by the odd quality of nothing. For one with the senses, there would be a presence, yes, but there was no perceiving it further than that; it was as though Jack were a living, walking scar in the world: A deep, jagged wound in the way of things, as it were. It was not just his spiritual nature, however, that was odd, for Jack was of above average height, the skin of his face was stretched too tight around his skull, his hair was pulled too far back and tied far too tight, and his lips, thin and cracked as they were, had dry flecks of blood at either side. In spite of his physical looks, however, Jack was dressed as fine as any pampered courtier, soft silks and leather gloves, and his boots, too, looked brand new.

There was always fire in Jack's eyes and it suddenly flared when he looked at Cliona, a mocking smile spreading wide across his lips, and with a jumbled, wheezy voice he began to cackle childishly:

"Bye, bye sad little fairy;
she's so eager to please,
good on her, but as for me
The Unseelie King decrees:
'make sure the beast lives,
Jack, killer though you be.'"

Sliding a crooked hand down the side of his pants, he grabbed the material, and pulled on it, testing its resistance.

"'We'll catch a young woman with another and kill a demon with the other,' said the king," Jack shrugged and his smile faded. "Trapping a trap seems a tad bit redundant to me, though, but who is a servant to question a king? We'll see, we'll see--I'm sure Deyanira won't give the boy too hard a thrashing, but ... I have to ask, if there‘s two women, two demons, and two Bæn Sidhe, oh where, oh where could my double be? Ahaha, are you coming to watch, dove?”

With laughter still rattling nosily from somewhere in his chest, Jack turned and started to walk away from Cliona, reply or no, and, without show or flare, the man vanished all at once. Jack needed no shadowy portal, no misty frost, no silver-lined mirror, or the shimmering surface of water--no, for a traveler such as he, only a destination was required.

[Bæn'Deyanira]

A Blink Betwixt the liminals...

The banshee came with the frozen kiss of breath, an icy snap crisping the air causing the mirrors to fog and freeze. Her coldness was of winter, and her eyes of midnight—a true combatant of the darkness and death. Appearing within the court without introduction or the stain of pleasantries that she knew her King would not admire nor expect...however...she did come forth from the gathering shadows with a bowed obeisance of a 'loyal' subject. Bæn'Deyanira would not bore him with long-winded words of esteem and adoration. Midnight eyes peered through the veils of pure white waist length hair streaming over her features that only hid the sharpness of them within diffused light and looming shadow. A deathly pallid hand extending towards him, gnarled in its appearance almost skeletal—twisting her left arm in 180 degree angle from the back of her palm to inner palm, unfurling her digits to reveal the crystal ball balanced on the palm of her hand. Glistening in the aurora of dazzling twilight and overture; sparkling with a life of its own and the inner luminosity glowing from within, a pulsating heart of light.

Offering it towards the Unseelie King with a cruel smile that most would not trust, nor accept a gift of rare, enchanted beauty; however, now was not the time for games "My Liege" the Banshees voice was like blades cutting glass, where each shard exploded to the discord of howls, enough to make the hair of most stand on end, and the delicious buds of eeriness creep beneath the skin like the nesting of spiders. "Your prize has been.... captured...whole as you requested. Such a pretty little thing, dancing on the needles of my enchantments... she is yours now!" Gesturing again for him to take her offering, head remaining bowed for the time being. All he would have to do was to take the prize while she whispered words to release the child from her crystalline prison. Unharmed and untouched as promised, not even a scratch to blemish the perfection of the maiden’s frail and youthful skin.

No more words followed those already spoken, she was not one with the trivialness of spoken word simply for mindless conversation, a solitary creature she was unless summoned to do the deeds of her king. Whether he was pleased or not, was not required to be appraised, nor did she seek reward—she only wished to return to the sweet death that called to her upon the whispers of the wind, and the cries of the fearful who shuddered in the darkness of her emotionless embrace. Slowly returning to an upright position, right hand grasping her scythe in firm grip rested on the ground with the blade hanging over her head like a broken ebony halo, awaiting her dismissal.

[Paroxysm]

The Dark King of the Fae--Pendaran, his given name--sat on his throne with his head propped; he was still and quiet, and almost appeared to be asleep. Draped across his form was light--not a material or fabric, but radiant, glorious light that hugged and clung to his body.

"Bean Shith," The King opened his eyes.

For a moment, he was motionless, his face stern, eyes hard, but before long he stirred, lifted his hand, and accepted the banshee’s offering without words of praise or promise of reward. Those things could come later, if the banshee so wanted, but it would have been rude to discuss such things in the presence of a guest, ensorcelled or not. The Unseelie may have been host to a score of monsters, known for dark plots, murder and mayhem, but let none accuse them of being rude.

Expectedly, however, the king held the enchanted prison, and awaited for the spell to unravel, the girl set free...

[Sebilla]

There was that horrible sucking feeling again. Sebilla had given up on knowing what was going on, having been shaken about the round room rather viciously. She knew she had a cut on her forehead, she felt the dried blood right before being sucked out of the crystal room. The all encompassing sound that came with the world of life, no matter how enchanted, was what hit her first.

Sebilla hit her feet as she was pushed out of the crystal ball, but she immediately fell to her hands and knees from the force of being ejected. She saw the hem of the Banshee's clothing and impulsively drew away from her, unintentionally closer to the Unseelie King. When she bumped into the stairs leading to his Throne she let out a startled yelp, panic starting to seep into her very bones.

Sebilla looked up, with wide sky blue eyes, and let out a small sound of sheer panic. She was very pretty for a human, she came from good stock after all. Her hair was blue black like a raven's wing, falling in soft curls around her tanned face. She looked drawn and a little pale, the dried blood from being shaken about the orb a stark contrast to her features. She had Xanathi blood from her mother and the features as well, but she had her father's coloring -- a man lost to history and not spoken of by her mother.

She was mortal, human, the only one of the Xanathi line still living. Fear fell off of her in waves and they would smell it, she didn't know how to mask it. Her heart fluttered and hammered in her chest, threatening to break free from her ribcage, the pulse in her throat visible beneath the thin tan skin of her neck.

"Wh...where am I?" She managed as she looked up at the King. He was what she was fixated on, fearing to look at the Banshee and what she might bring. She associated her with her captor, but legend had all sorts of reasons one shouldn't look at a banshee and that fueled her discontent even further.

"Why am I here?" Her voice was a little stronger as she stared up at the King, though none of her color was coming back -- if anything she appeared to be getting paler by the second as terror ripped through her.

[Paroxysm]

Whilst Sebilla fumbled about, the Unseelie king watched and waited, and while he waited, he constructed a subtle, powerful Fascination; it was the kind of thing that could ensnare the hearts and minds of mortals, without them realizing it, and was leagues above a common Fae's glamour or veil. This was not, however, a spell meant to control or enthrall the human girl, but to put her at ease by obscuring the reality of her situation just enough so that the terror associated with the banshee became a dull throb of instinct in the reptilian part of her brain. The king, too, became less alien, familiar human warmth flooding his features, but the regal, unapproachable demeanor of a ruler remained untouched.

When the king spoke, his voice came in a fleeting tenor that was light and agile, and more than a little magical; it could resonate deep within a person's soul and cause them to unconsciously lean in towards the source to catch a better earful of the sound.

"Riocht na si," Pendaran had said with a wry, playful smile full of too many, too white teeth. "Fairyland," he clarified in the mortal world's common tongue.

With liquid grace, Pendaran stood from his throne and descended the dais, barefoot and clothed in light, and stopped just before - and above - Sebilla. He extended his hand out to the girl, intending to help her up, but not before flashing a disarming, concerned look. Of course, that was with the Fascination ... Without it, he would have appeared very much like the wolf poised over the helpless lamb, fanged maw and all.

"I wish to speak to Queen Igraine," he answered, honestly, "but, -” he paused and his eyes glittered with amusement, “- my cousins and her mother have colored her perceptions of me unfairly. Your uncle, too, has not helped matters,” Pendaran shrugged, unconcerned; “I’m hoping she’ll reconsider when she hears how gracious a host I am.”

[Sebilla]

Sebilla took Pendaran's hand and blinked, her fear suddenly unfounded. She got to her feet and brushed the hair out of her face, looking around and calming herself. Surely she had imagined all of the awful things she had seen. This man before her, this King, seemed to be an okay person.

"You know my aunt?" She referred to Igraine with a questioning look as she looked up at Pendaran. She let go of his hand and crossed her arms under her breasts and glanced around somewhat insecurely.

"My Uncle? You mean that man Thorin? I don't really know him. He just showed up one day after finding Aunt Igraine." Sebilla pushed her hair back from her face again, a nervous gesture. She wasn't entirely sold on the idea that she wasn't a hostage to a powerful man.

"You seem nice enough, but she might be the least of your worries. My brother, Trydian, isn't going to be happy that I disappeared. He's a demon." Sebilla said, looking up at Pendaran again -- unsure whether or not she should be worried about the man that just seemed to have a bad reputation, or thankful that her brother might be coming for her.

"Why do you want to meet my Aunt?" It was an innocent question spoken by an innocent young human woman.

[Paroxysm]

Pendaran turned away from Sebilla once she was standing, putting his back to her, and made his way back up the dais, reclaiming his seat; he propped his head back up and stared down at her with sky-blue eyes, the color in them shimmering from the still-active Fascination.

“It only seems proper that I would,” Pendaran answered, quirking his brow, “she is a queen, after all, and her Queendom has always been, -” he savored his words for a moment, “- strongly connected with ours.”

Any place could connect to the Fae lands, one way or another, but Ulster was different, special. Culture, history, people; he could hardly be faulted for knowing of Igraine, really, though it would have been clear, sans the Fascination, that he was not telling the whole truth.

“Thorin,” the king chuckled when he spoke the name, “I know,” he agreed, “some domestic conflict or another before your time,” he waved his free hand in a careless gesture, “but he moves against me, all the same.”

Each word he spoke was played through his Fascination, intertwining itself with the magic, subtle and intoxicating, and the more he spoke, the more it pushed and nudged, consistent, but not overwhelming. Too hard and he might awaken something unforeseen, a resistance, perhaps, or, more likely, he’d break her and she’d lose her value; and if he pushed too softly, halfheartedly, she would remain the doe-eyed, apprehensive mortal-thing and her fear would feed the misfits of his court, an annoyance he had no desire to deal with.

It was just all-around better when his guests cooperated.

“Ah,” he mouthed, “my emissary should be talking things out with your brother as we speak,” his lips formed a knowing smile, “and if diplomacy works, he and you should be reunited in a fortnight or two."

Underneath his Fascination, the high-level glamour, the King laughed, a sinister, although unheard, sound that would’ve cut as deeply as any sword. He liked this girl, he thought. She knew what questions to ask.

“You’re the first one to ask,” he sighed, but his eyes held only joy. “Nobody usually wants to ask ‘why?‘,” he explained, “they react,” he paused for emphasis, “violently. Not long ago, three of my envoys were run off after only a scarce few words and the mirror I had used to reach out was promptly destroyed,” illusionary disappointment accompanied his tone, instead of the amusement that he truly spoke with, “but I digress, don’t I? I want to talk about a lot of things. The future of my realm and of Ulster, the Seelie, too, and, in truth, also the advantages of a political marriage between us. True peace between our people,” he spoke in half truths, “A worthy goal, isn’t it? “