In a warded, subterranean council chamber of Rhilshen Fortress, Alysia Skye sat at the western point of a circular table with her forehead resting upon the palm of her right hand. A scrying bowl was cradled by her left hand, and from time to time, strange shadows reflected upward from the black, oily water contained in the shallow stone vessel. An enormous map of Rhilshen, marked by different hands with graphite, silverstick, blue ink, and what looked like red crayon, was held flat on the table by whatever was close at hand: daggers, goblets, eating knives, a money pouch, a fat ivory pillar candle.
A few elders of the Bloodline, along with several blood-bonded advisors, were seated around the table. Javan Ratt Skye, garbed in his usual black, was seated immediately to Alysia?s left. Next to him was his wife, Lledrith Skye, a petite and rather troubled looking vampire with gamine features, pale blue eyes and very short, almost white blonde hair. Clad improbably in blue jeans and a tight black t-shirt imported from the realm she used to call home, she was slouched sideways, legs draped neatly over the side of her chair. Seated near Lledrith was Aeris Amberleaf Skye, a willowy vampeal with blood-red eyes and long, curly brown hair, wearing the silver-gray spidersilk gown of a priestess of Syladesh.
To Alysia?s right was Emma Frost Skye, often referred to as the White Queen, with a perfect tan and a straight fall of pale blonde hair, dressed in an impeccable white linen suit. She cast a disapproving look at Lledrith and raised her eyebrows, mentally chiding :Your posture is deplorable, child. If this is what comes of your living with barbarians, I will have to arrange for some remedial etiquette instruction.:
The vampire grinned mischieviously at the dry telepathic comment and sent back an unlikely image of the lean Master of Assassins wearing full plate armor and a bear fur cloak, wielding a huge axe against a similarly armored minotaur. :Barbarians, huh?: She snickered and straightened, however, affecting a demure pose as she soberly studied the southwestern section of the map. :Yeah, well, if Alys was worried about my rough edges, I wouldn?t be part of this conference of worthy individuals, even if I am family.:
Standing next to Emma was a somber, silver-haired demon mage named Dar?Karow, who leaned on the table and arranged a number of small crystals, black and white, across the map . Though he appeared youthful and unmarked by age, his face was gaunt with bitter sorrow, and he telepathically snapped at the two, :Cut the chatter, lovelies. Our Emperess is working.
Dar?s daughter, a half elf named Evara Bloodtree Skye, frowned and elbowed him gently.
A young man and woman who looked to be brother and sister, both with elven features, preternaturally pale flesh, and crimson hair, eyes and clothes, giggled at the cool stares leveled on Dar. They were shushed by Llillith Shadow Skye, a languid woman garbed in scarlet. The three were Bloodsingers, shadowmages employed in Rhilshen as scouts and bardic historians, occasionally sent to other realms as diplomatic spies.
Alysia was, for the moment, aware of none of this, centered as she was upon the watery images called forth inside the scrying bowl, a shallow thing crafted from charcoal-grey stone. In full daylight, the grey stone would glimmer with an iridescent purple sheen and the sparkle of mica; however, the scrying bowl had never seen daylight. Lacking any carvings or sigils save for an eight-pointed star traced on the bottom, the vessel dimly shed a cold blue glow to even the least discerning eye.
A few elders of the Bloodline, along with several blood-bonded advisors, were seated around the table. Javan Ratt Skye, garbed in his usual black, was seated immediately to Alysia?s left. Next to him was his wife, Lledrith Skye, a petite and rather troubled looking vampire with gamine features, pale blue eyes and very short, almost white blonde hair. Clad improbably in blue jeans and a tight black t-shirt imported from the realm she used to call home, she was slouched sideways, legs draped neatly over the side of her chair. Seated near Lledrith was Aeris Amberleaf Skye, a willowy vampeal with blood-red eyes and long, curly brown hair, wearing the silver-gray spidersilk gown of a priestess of Syladesh.
To Alysia?s right was Emma Frost Skye, often referred to as the White Queen, with a perfect tan and a straight fall of pale blonde hair, dressed in an impeccable white linen suit. She cast a disapproving look at Lledrith and raised her eyebrows, mentally chiding :Your posture is deplorable, child. If this is what comes of your living with barbarians, I will have to arrange for some remedial etiquette instruction.:
The vampire grinned mischieviously at the dry telepathic comment and sent back an unlikely image of the lean Master of Assassins wearing full plate armor and a bear fur cloak, wielding a huge axe against a similarly armored minotaur. :Barbarians, huh?: She snickered and straightened, however, affecting a demure pose as she soberly studied the southwestern section of the map. :Yeah, well, if Alys was worried about my rough edges, I wouldn?t be part of this conference of worthy individuals, even if I am family.:
Standing next to Emma was a somber, silver-haired demon mage named Dar?Karow, who leaned on the table and arranged a number of small crystals, black and white, across the map . Though he appeared youthful and unmarked by age, his face was gaunt with bitter sorrow, and he telepathically snapped at the two, :Cut the chatter, lovelies. Our Emperess is working.
Dar?s daughter, a half elf named Evara Bloodtree Skye, frowned and elbowed him gently.
A young man and woman who looked to be brother and sister, both with elven features, preternaturally pale flesh, and crimson hair, eyes and clothes, giggled at the cool stares leveled on Dar. They were shushed by Llillith Shadow Skye, a languid woman garbed in scarlet. The three were Bloodsingers, shadowmages employed in Rhilshen as scouts and bardic historians, occasionally sent to other realms as diplomatic spies.
Alysia was, for the moment, aware of none of this, centered as she was upon the watery images called forth inside the scrying bowl, a shallow thing crafted from charcoal-grey stone. In full daylight, the grey stone would glimmer with an iridescent purple sheen and the sparkle of mica; however, the scrying bowl had never seen daylight. Lacking any carvings or sigils save for an eight-pointed star traced on the bottom, the vessel dimly shed a cold blue glow to even the least discerning eye.