𝒌𝖊𝖑𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖙𝖍

The vaguely familiar voice rang in her ears and she glanced to the side only to glare at the speaker. “Keleseth.” Eryis bit out his name with a slight scoff and turned back to her work. “I’m surprised that you’d even remember someone as mundane and ordinary as myself.” The sarcasm was palpable and her narrow eyes fix on the san'layn once again. It had been so long since the battle against the Lich King and his minions in Northrend. Almost seemed like it was centuries ago. The years began to blur together in nothing but war-torn memories. 

Eryis shook her head and pushed her papers into her bag. “I did not wish to kill myself with the magic I wielded,” she finally answered him. “I can still use it but have chosen another path.” One that might have been wrong. With the war between the Alliance and the Horde, she wasn’t as strong as she once was. Oh, she was still powerful. She’d learned the art of frost magic quicker than she thought but she still wasn’t powerful…enough. She had been as a warlock. The leader of the Black Harvest, one of the slayers of Gul’dan and defeater of Kil’jaden. But now…who was she? 

“Have you come to mock?” She raised an eyebrow at him, drawing in closer to the undead elf. It was odd to see him. Had the Lich King’s sway over him been broken when Arthas was killed? Was he here on diplomacy or to cause trouble? “Or have you come to help?” 

@blccdprince         

            " Ah — I do have fellows who keep me up to date with names and faces, don’t flatter yourself too much there. ”       As if that was an excuse that could hold any merit, vengeance was a writhing worm that bored holes through his mind, and it took reason and responsibility to go through and web up the sensation for him to carry on. The explanation was met with a passive look of indifference, details tidily pocketed away as she spoke on her own accord. An expression of mock offense slid pinched his brows, and while the curve of an exaggerated frown couldn’t be seen on his mouth, the words he spoke were laced with the sound of it.             “ Mock? Come now, why mock such a foul tool — my kind haven’t ever been welcoming of that felfire. I’d like to pass along my support on that decision. ”

            “ Deathlord. "       The purr of the word hummed through in a too-pleasant tone, the sickly-sweet flavor of the utterance laying out a spread of appreciation, intrigue, and approval. It was understood the Ebon Blade had their own twist with hushed dealings when the fel-green threat pressured the world, but now? Now there were loose ends, and an overlap that caused tensions in those who wore bolder colors to whoever their allegiance was linked to. The mess of those tangles opened the door for chaos, and ever the one to see an opening and try to snake some influence there — why, the Prince certainly couldn’t let this pass him by!

      The regalia had been toned down remarkably, opulence and luxury weren’t useful when it came to negotiations or more level attempts to forge deals. The velvet and silks were exchanged for a more commonplace look, dark tones dressing the san’layn in what would serve for the necessity at hand. Still regal -- reds touching in the clasp of mask drawn up to fit over mouth and nose-tip, and that red was also in the rings heavy on a choice few of his clawed fingers.       She, though, was the target of his focus, and wasn’t that a struggling, conflicted beast at that. Fury did not marry cleanly with composure, but it did try in the presence of the woman. 

            “ Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Dear Knight, have you time for an old friend? "

            " The reach out into the Fjord has been successful thus far. ”       The typical note of command in that hollow echo of a voice was lax, such a thing wouldn’t be too wise to use with superiors — with a mere handful of those, it was a rare sight to behold, the twist of words far more open and lacking the smear of honeyed flavor to sweeten the delivery. There was no reason to try and charm when speaking to the King, but there was no cause to act dismissive either. Respect tied itself in a careful noose, and Keleseth wore it so nicely around his throat as the words fashioned through it. Not all of the Lich King’s subjects feared or loathed him — that would be rather counter-intuitive when trying to inspire loyalty.

            “ Ingvar is .... interesting. Stubborn, yet stalwart, but slipping beneath command well enough. ”       The Prince folded his hands behind the small of his back, head tilting faintly, some slice of sharp smile hidden behind the rim of mask.              “ Did you wish for a full report? Or were there more pressing matters, your grace? ”