"The honor is mine," Michaela replied, hardly answering his question, but the dancing light that shone through her lashes said that she had something for him, something too delicate for just a hallway even if it were in her own home. She smiled with a hum, dropping playful eyes for a moment before they rose again. Twisting to face him fully silver silk folded to her form and whisked the marble floor. Leaning in, she grasped his wrist and forearm and took half a step back, silently asking him to come along with her. Her playful expression was apologetic but there was a confidence there that seemed to suggest that he wouldn't regret trusting her in this simple request. Rarely was the Queen of Faro informal, even in her own home, but rarely did she ever have so few eyes upon her, either. Now there were only two.

One furtive step and then another from the senator and Michaela's glad satisfaction shimmered across her features. She turned about, still eagerly leading Gaetano with one hand latched to his until his step fell into stride at her side. Slipping close, the Queen tucked fingers beneath his arm and curled them lightly there. A faint sound like static scaled the walls on either side, the Craft that carried it meeting on the ceiling above and glowing softly. A chain reaction cascaded down the corridor, the ethereal light gleaming on every shined surface and then quickly faded away.

Squeezing the senator's arm, Michaela pointed. "Shields." More than just shields, there was more Craft in that single hall than there was in many towns in Faro, but announcing the rest would only negate a portion of the security afforded. Even the Queen herself didn't know the finer details of the spells woven to keep her safe in these troubling times. The home was a vault of power for as much consideration was paid to safety, but improper access to the private chambers or an attempt to gain as much would be deadly on a suicidal level. Senator Accorsi's visit hadn't been worked into the weave of the webs here--it would have meant informing others--but he was escorted by the master key herself which bypassed other needs.

Passing through the intricate layers of protection, Michaela's heels clicked quietly, muffled beneath the weight of her gown. Apart from the thrum of an incredible amount of Craft, nothing seemed to be too different from the rest of the home, or any of Michaela's residences. It was opulent as always but the absence of servants, escorts, and advisors might have struck someone who was more accustomed to Michaela's apparent preferences.

At the end of the hall, an open archway stood atop a short set of wide steps. Here, Michaela slipped away from Gaetano, gliding down the steps to drift among the massive statues in a large, long gallery. Beneath the hooves of a rearing stallion, Michaela turned to look for Gaetano.

"You're safe here," she offered, not sure if he'd gathered that his life had depended on her touch while within the hall. If not, her words might come across as rather cryptic. "We both are," she followed with a laugh.

Though she continued through the room, the Queen showed no sense of urgency, turning her attention to the intricately carved stone figures on all sides.

"To answer your question, Senator, my husband thinks very highly of you, and I very highly of his estimation." Her voice echoed softly in the marvelous yet inhospitable space. "I find myself in need of a new perspective and I had hoped that could provide it for me. I suspect that unlike others, you might be true with me. More than a single question, I'm looking for someone to fill an advisory role, though not so official, and even less overt in nature. It would be a risk for you because you must go blindly or not at all. But if you leave, whether to return or not, you'll go with Senator Tibault's respect, and mine as well."

Hearsay gave voice to the result that had worried Melody enough to ask for help. That prying open the trap would just worsen the poor bunny’s wound or hasten its death. She was relieved that he had answered her call, that he’d been close enough to lend a hand.

Melody heard a rustling in the underbrush just outside of her bubble so she creeped closer, making almost no noise. She carefully pushed aside a branch and found another frightened baby. With the utmost care, Melody scooped the soft creature up and placed it into the shield with its siblings.

“Of course,” the witch responded instantly. She hurried to the trap and sat across from Hearsay as he indicated. She shielded her hands before figuring out the best place to pry the vicious trap open from. She gave a nod, listened to the countdown, and carefully pried open the spring-trap.

Melody was a bad ass fighter. She trained daily, sparred all the time, fought the brood. And still she couldn’t help but to gasp at the damage done to a defenseless creature. Tears stung her eyes as her mind jumped ahead – they’d have to get the rabbit to a healer, now, for them to do any good.

She knew he’d have come to the same conclusion, only he just cradled the rabbit into his lap and pressed his hands to her wounds. Melody knit her brows together and opened her mouth to prompt Hearsay into moving, only to snap it shut.

Hearsay was weaving craft into the rabbit. Healing Craft. And not the little bits and pieces all of the Blood learn to close shallow wounds, but actual Healing Craft. She blinked a few times, because now her sense were telling her that he had the psychic scent of a Healer. A Healer Warlord.

Well, well, well. Things just got interesting. Seems her friend has been keeping a secret from her, unless he’d just trained into it? Either way she wasn’t sure if she was annoyed that he’d kept it for her or impressed that he had. The brat.

She sat back and watched while he patched up his furry little patient. She waited until he was finished before smiling cheekily. “Well, looks like I know where to bring all the injured rabbits I find.”

“I do think I can teach you,” Beckett said. He chose his words carefully because he knew that while Samson would (or at least should) care about his qualifications, he knew the kids would zone out immediately.

“I have all sorts of fun things for you all to learn, and don’t worry, you won’t all be doing the same work.” He would need to figure out where each child was in their studies to see if they were behind or needed to be challenged more, but he definitely was not about to insult the older children with work that was geared towards the younger ones.

Beckett’s eyes scanned the children briefly and then his gaze settled on the twin boys, Brixton and Bentley. On that note, who named twin boys with B names? That seemed like it was asking for trouble when trying to holler one’s name. He was sure that at some point, he would shout the wrong name, and then probably that of a sibling or two, and then finally the right one. This was something he had experienced with parents of his previous students. It never happened in his own home growing up, though, because his brother never got yelled at. There was no reason to mistakenly shout his name. Beckett wished their father had, though, because maybe it would have given him a running start sometimes.

Shaking that off, Beckett refocused his smile on the twins.

“Do you boys like bugs? For your first lesson, you’re going to need a bunch of them.” Bug collection and classification was one of Beckett’s favorite lessons. It was always fun for him to see the different bugs the kids brought back to pin to their boards. Often times, boys that seemed like they were rough and tumble kids would be gentle to make sure that the delicate butterfly wings did not end up torn.

Sloane hadn’t assigned him Runner because they would be a seamless fit, but because she wanted to see how he reacted to a challenge. The stallion was well known for running off in whatever direction he saw fit. This caused quite a lot of animosity between him and the stable hands until Sloane realized the animal was smart, so smart that if she ignored him and walked the other way he would think twice about being left behind in the cold. For Lorcan it was a bit of a test as well as a playful way for his Queen to pay him back for taking her most well-behaved horse.

They set forward Marvy clearing the fence and Runner at her heels, that was until he changed his plans. Sloane took the opportunity to spur her steed forward until she heard the stallion neigh with surprise and she pulled back on the reigns to slow the mare. Confused Marvy twisted around, her legs telling her to go but her rider willing her to follow the command. The animal’s legs shot up on the tip of its hooves,  gnawing on the bridle. Until Sloane caught sight of Lorcan and Runner. The palomino was on his side, the Warlord Prince scolding him like some insubordinate child.  Marvy twisted around again bringing them into a loop and Sloane smirked, catching Lorcan’s scathing demand in the air.

Runner was back on his feet, there was no harm though she had been initially concerned.  Returning back to the path Sloane was sure to slow, just enough to let the males catch up. “You two are getting along.” She smirked, impishly, her pale emerald eyes studying askance. “He is, he is also an ass. “ Runner shook out his mane and the indignity of the scolding but his behavior had much improved. “Don’t think that’s the last protest you’ll hear. You two will be enemies before you make friends.” Runner was intelligent and that meant he knew how to be patient. “He broke himself and several other horses out in the middle of the night last year, right into the paddock. They ate the next day’s entire hay bale and managed to even open the gate. The stable hand found him the next morning with his head in one of the bedroom windows.” She chuckled gently. Yeah she knew exactly what she’d given him.

She watched as he maneuvered him easily into a side along until they were shoulder to shoulder.  He spoke of the mountains and his many excursions. “I've seen the mountain goats. They are fun to watch, climbing up cliff faces with the tiniest of footholds.” There was a sense of belonging in his voice and pride of a hard day's work. He had not only seen the peeks, but he had also lived them.  “I might have to invest in some gear and see how I fare. Ill have to bring you along. If he loved the mountains, she would have to get to know them as well.

“It’s a beautiful image but that’s not what I meant, there are stars beneath the mountain too, but I'll show you.” With another soft smile she rose from her saddle, and onto the stirrups, bringing Marvy into a gallop. They rode through the fields, Sloane pointed out which plots would be cleared for farmland in the spring. They would be focusing on potatoes, turnips, and leafy vegetables. They would also be integrating some cattle but that meant building a larger barn to house the animals during storms. Sloane surveyed her land until they reached the shadow of the mountains. The substrate here held much more stone, large pieces had broken away long ago from the goliath strictures as if scattered while the edifices were being carved out.  They hadn’t spoken much, she had been content to show him the path and enjoy her lands. Part of the experience was sharing his company.  They reached a small crag, and she guided him down slowly along the rocky path. The Trotters knew to keep their feet tense and anchor down as if they had taken this journey before. When they reached the base she followed the line of rock face until they came to a section with larger boulders, the two most noticeable ones rested on their backs in a slope and framed a mine entrance. 

Marvy lowered her head to sniff the ground as Sloane dismounted and let the lead rope drop, binding the edge of it with her Green so the horse could not wander off. “This way. I imagine you aren't afraid of heights and open skies, but I should have asked, you're not uncomfortable in dark, narrow places are you?” Her head tilted, studying him carefully.

[note: Current timeline; After all events in DN, accompanied by Ghanima and Errai, per their players.]

Abaddon had no skill with illusions, nor had he asked for assistance before leaving Dena Nehele.  One of the things he had discovered outside of Pruul was how very mobile he could be.  The Winds were not instant, but they were fast.  They cut trips down to days, and allowed him to keep a connection in more than one Territory.  He needed to return to Askavi to deliver his suspicions to his Father, the Queen, and to Tavar.  They all needed to understand what he had perceived and experienced, and what he had not seen.  The Jhinka were being pushed, possibly even trained.  They were doing things they had never done, and while they should be expected to learn from generations of war, their advancement should not be in leaps and bounds.  He rode the Winds now, and with him came his Queen and his Bond Brother, Errai.

The Winds were a vast network, and where they had been absent most of Pruul, with only two exceptions, everywhere else they were a glittering array to Abaddon’s senses.  He rode them with the two people held close to him.  He protected them with Webs, just in case, and he did not rush.  The Winds were accessible, but only a fool took the dangers inherent in such travel for granted, and he had never been that.  The journey was, indeed, swift.  They rested when he needed it, walked when it seemed right, and used the Winds to bridge distances and rough terrain.  It did not take long for Abaddon to have them in Gravesend, and he chose to arrive at the Landing Pad, like a proper visitor, before he made his way into the aerie to find his Father.  He sent out threads, calling for those he was tied to.  He greeted Drakkar on his return, reached out to Illyrian, and sent a mental tap out to Tavar.  He had returned to Askavi with his Queen, but more than that.

He had returned with wings.

Abaddon had hidden his new extremities under a heavy cloak.  He usually did not make any particular allowances for the weather of Askavi, as he was free to use Craft for comfort, but he had bought proper attire for Errai and Ghanima, so that they would not regret their Pruulian instincts.  Perhaps only Tavar would recognize that he was hiding something, but he would never be able to know exactly what it was that he concealed.  He led his companions towards the offices of the Queen and Warlord Prince of Askavi, explaining who they were about to meet along the way.  Abaddon escorted Ghanima as was proper, and his fingers lightly caressing her skin.  ”Lady Illyrian has been very kind.  My Father has relaxed somewhat since our meeting.  We are, I think, at the very least, friends.  Tavar is here as well, Fin al-Sabbah, as you know him.  He is here, paying a Price to Askavi for what are considered past crimes.”  Abaddon knocked on his Father’s door.  He did not want his return to happen in open court.  The public would know soon enough, he would save at least this secret joy for these people.