Endurance.

[Harliven Darkshine]

The sun beat down upon the bare backs of the two combatants, the half-healed wounds of the Black Royal’s recent conflict jarring slashes of discoloration running down his shoulders and torso and looking as if they were sawed there. The snow that dusted over the trees signified how chilling the temperature really was and yet the exertion spent on drilling technique after technique seemed to heat the elves’ bodies inconceivably, their feet nimbly reacting to the icy surfaces beneath their feet and the hazardous skidding of their movements. His opponent was unhurt, perhaps, but the fellow man was slightly older and appeared indefinitely tired; responsibility after responsibility, perhaps, had burdened both. Hair bound, ever-changing eyes were locked on the powerful form of the man opposite him, and Harliven seemed no more aware of pain than anything else that occurred outside his mind. Detached, distant, the elf’s bronze skin – having darkened slightly over the years – was ashen with effort and pale with weariness, making it clear he was working far too early for comfort. To him it appeared nothing mattered but the contemplation in his own mind and, every now and then, he would look up after executing a particularly difficult act of swordsplay and seem mildly surprised that he was, in fact, in the middle of a spar.

It was gravely intensive, however.

The metallic tang of blood could be scented to anyone whose nose was particularly strong enough, and the burns along one combatant’s upper arm and chest played a tell-tale sign of the Prince’s expanding array of powers. A deep cut, however, was embedded into his side and his free arm was held oddly despite being wrapped in the standard dark silk of his uniform, allowing no sign of wound or fluid to be seen. They moved artfully, skillfully, and any human observer would be certain they were dancing the steps based on the intent to slaughter each other; the presence of servants and the spared healer the palace kept punctuated the solemn nature of the fight. The Prince was not one to be kept in bed to acknowledge his own time of weaknesses, no – he healed and simultaneously taxed himself, and Thalion and Ardon merely watched as he continued at it, knowing that there were few who could stop him.

The nine-year-old child – looking barely two by human terms – struggled to speak on occasion but merely sat, absorbed with the image of his father’s combat practice, with wide and appraising eyes. They were gold, slightly akin to his mother’s and yet notably paler in the irises. His hair, still growing out, seemed soft and feathery, straight and slanting backward so that his still rounded features made him look a bit bird-like and he seemed very conscientious of himself as he grasped lightly to Ardon’s robes. The auburn-headed woman with her hunter-green eyes and angled eyebrows looked almost barbarically beautiful but even she had lost a great deal of luster in the passed eighteen years. She was just over two-hundred and fifty years old and formerly the bane of the princess consort’s existence – an etiquette tutor by the name of Lady Juanita Ardon-Chavez – and the wartime spells had taxed a great deal of her energy. Together, the pair gazed intently upon the happenings, Ardon mindful of the young toddler’s lack of coordination and Thalion unminding temporarily of his mother’s absence in the company of the familiar caretaker and his apparent concentration on the happenings before him. Artair was inside, of course, with the younger Darkshine son only having been brought out for fresh air after being stuck so long ill indoors, swathed in robes and forgetting all thoughts of the inside for just a moment.

[Meleth Darkshine]

The shapeshifter wanted to stop him at the first hint of physical injury, but she'd carefully snuffed out the fierce demands of her protective nature for a small time, knowing that to request her Prince's pause too early would be worse for him than letting him carry on. It was nigh impossible to say when Meleth had come outside, Artair clinging lightly to her pinky finger but, having demanded that he walk on his own, scurrying with effort at her side in a show that he could keep up with her stride. She'd made him promise silence and he complied dutifully, and so the pair approached from behind the rest of those onlookers and combatants and, for a small while, remained stationary to gaze upon the tremendeous sight – the tried, tested, and proven reason that Silvanus remained fully intact and threatening even now.

It was when the silk finally could hold no more from being seen and dripped crimson droplets onto the snow and ice below them that Meleth decided Harliven had exerted himself well enough for now, and to the point where he was no longer doing himself any favors. While there was a healer on site to keep him from quite literally killing himself, the druidic elf certainly saw no good in it after that point, and if her calling to him would irritate him in the heat of this moment, then so be it.

"Tanyas faarea," her voice abruptly broke into the near silence, the air only having been permeated by the methodical sounds of sword swings and metal on metal. The old elvish, the shapeshifter had learned in her time amidst the caged, was something that not many of their kind remembered or knew at all, and so it had become more their language than it ever was before. She'd pulled away from Artair and came a bit closer, perhaps to reach out with her aura to rouse his senses back to reality and soothe and call him back to her.

That's enough.

Meleth wouldn't necessarily demand a stop to his spar, but she was most definitely in her power to let him know how she felt on it. She wouldn't seek to force him into bed to rest and be tended to as the helpless, but she could and would suggest and call him to breakfast.

Artair, assuming his mother speaking was the end of their vow of silence, took the chance at his parting from her to gleefully dart towards Thalion and squeal something incoherent. He slid on his knees once close enough to where Thalion was sitting and wrapped his arms around his younger brother, apparently quite pleased to see him outside and assuming it meant that he felt better in spite of any truths. "Doessit mean we can play now, after.. after eating?"

[Harliven Darkshine]

The irregular punctuation of the duelists’ silence sent Ardon’s finely kept brows into a sudden, sharp frown as her gaze snapped lightning-quick towards the speaker, moving Thalion to settle better upon her lap. Surprised as he was suddenly held tighter in his caretaker’s momentary start, the youngest of the Darkshines turned to crane his neck towards the noise. Dizzily focusing his eyes on the image of his mother he made a small sound of impatience – as though he had been wondering where she’d got to - and reached anxiously towards her as though afraid she was getting in the way. His gesture was quickly disrupted by the sight of his older brother and, distracted, the little boy turned it into a sort of impromptu half-embrace from his awkward and sheet-swamped position in Ardon’s lap.

“Arter come see fodder, too?” The voice came out in a piping and pleased exclamation as though it was, indeed, a wonderfully unexpected occurrence. A bit younger, he did not immediately notice his own errors in pronunciation and grammar in such excitement; obviously he had meant to say, “Artair has come to see father, too?”

Pursing her lips at the unruly interruption and sending a sternly disapproving glance Meleth’s way, the courtier spent a moment to fuss over the older boy’s curls before answering in the business-like but dangerously sweetened edge that she spoke in. “We will see how Thalion dearest is doing after dinner and perhaps Her Highness will let you play then, hmm? Hush now; His Highness is busy.” Appearing as though that was the fact of the matter, she scooted further along the bench she had perched upon as though hoping that having the two boys sit together would help them be quieter, and she returned her gaze to the scene before them.

“That’s enough,” had come the proclamation and, unlike the noise of his sons and the voice of Lady Ardon, it roused enough of the Prince’s attentions to send a sidelong glance towards the speaker. The braids of her jade hair would have made her distinctly notable to anyone else yet Harliven did not pause upon glimpsing it, backing away from his opponent for the brief moment needed to seek his wife’s face. The almost aristocratically angled features of her once wild face and the unrestrained gold of her eyes seemed to rouse him momentarily from his internal contemplation and, distanced from them for a few brief seconds, seemed to become aware that he had hurt himself by the red wash dripping into the snow and spattered at his side.

“Ah,” he murmured softly as though realizing what he had been called for and, looking up at his partner, moved suddenly and with renewed vigor, pace increasing tenfold as though deciding that it was, in fact, enough. This time there was something pointedly strained in his actions and Matthieu, the man he fought so harshly against, seemed pointedly surprised as he moved to parry the blows. Solid footing was something denied to both and they grappled with rising intensity; the difference being that the guardsman had exerted himself and spent too much energy and the Prince, acting tamely in comparison to his full potential, now cut short his game of skill. Moving to overpower with his own reserves – which, as pain flared up into his grasp as he switched arms in guidance, was being drained far faster than his standard conservation - it seemed he planned to purge himself of any potential restlessness and expend himself completely. As Mattheiu reached for magecraft to pull the stained snow up to aid him in smothering the royal (Ardon and the healer had tensed and several servants covered their faces) a boiling explosion of steam shielded the scene as fire countered ice. A sudden and unexpected sword-thrust met the guardsman as both slipped over the frozen earth; Harliven falling upon his knees, supporting his position with his good arm and lunging out his weapon with the bad, forced the angle of the other into one where he could not adequately maneuver his sword for escape. Breathing heavily as the hot air scalded their throats and lungs, the pair seemed to sag down, unable to properly inhale as the steam cleared away and the snow went damp beneath them, the attendants falling in to pry the pair apart and clean up the evidence of their mishaps.

Ardon, who had looked prepared to cover the children up had there been any sign of a more dangerous finish, turned a perplexed and half-appraising glance towards the Princess Consort with a derisive noise as though unable to decide what to make of the interruption. Moving to set Thalion down beside her she scolded quietly to the two boys. “Never do that, do you both understand? It’s very impractical to interrupt in such a way.” The youngest blinked, having paused to watch momentarily the ending and the confusing rush of people, but likely did not heed such words. His father was busily examining the place where Matthieu’s sword had drilled an ugly wound around his abdomen, appearing used to such wounds but disapprovingly irked that it had happened. One of his servants was attempting to remove the silk wrapping over his arm that was so clearly saturated with blood and, after a moment of such annoyances, recoiling from the healer as he calmed and caged his newly emerging aggression and resigned her to first treating Mattheiu’s burns, glanced up impatiently towards the Archdruid that had so intervened.

Well? His fierce stare appeared to demand expectantly to her, though he did not yet speak. And it was difficult to tell whether his look inquired if she was going to approach and speak to him, or if it was ordering her to hurry and come.

[Meleth Darkshine]

"Of course!" the eldest child beamed, though his bright smile was momentarily interrupted by an almost irritated frown. Artair swatted away at Ardon's hands, not seeming to care much for the way she fussed over his hair and even further proving himself as his mother's son. Of course, the boy had been brought up this way and so his lack of patience for such things was not because he was unused to it, but rather a display of that furious and demanding independence that he was quite quickly coming into. His dual-colored eyes lifted from Thalion to look seriously up at Lady Ardon, and his glare was nearly precious and might have been worth a swoon or two if it did not so viciously resemble that dangerous and too often used look of Harliven himself.

Dinner was so far away, and Artair was not happy with the response. Still, he did as he was told and hushed, fidgeting with Thalion's covers after finally breaking the stare he had dared up at his caretaker.

It was a good thing that Meleth was quite comfortable to assume which of the two options Harliven's stare was betraying, as orders were rarely considered in spite of his position as a Prince and his role as her husband. Deciding easily his look was an inquisitive one rather than a demand, the shapeshifter approached him calmly, slow in comparison to those rushing bodies that had initially swamped him in hopes of tending to his wounds. Still, she could not stop her eyes from falling to the nasty gash in his torso and when she was close enough, her hands reached out to touch his sides gently, both because it was the light way she normally greeted him and because it allowed her to run one up his side to slightly probe at the wound and curiously test just how bad it was.

"Inn-practical," Artair agreed absently, nodding his head a single time as he watched the scene, and more particularly his parents, with wide and probing eyes.

"We need to find you dancing partners that can keep up, darling, so that you might try harder to stay awake and not get hurt," the Archdruid teased, tongue still flowing in ancient elvish, either out of courtesy for Matthieu's pride or, perhaps, because she was occasionally of a mind to forget which language she was using. Then again, the most likely option was a third, being that Ardon did not speak it and the shapeshifter was still finding irritating her former – and sometimes continuing – etiquette tutor of great amusement. "Are you finished here for a while, or should I take Juanita to breakfast instead and see how much of her hair I can get her to rip out?"

A small grin was shot torwards Lady Ardon at that, but it was brief before Meleth's eyes returned to Harliven, vibrant and glittering and saying, quite plainly, to one so well versed in her expressions that she wished he hadn't left for his sparring so early.

[Harliven Darkshine]

The impromptu governess faltered, frowning with disapproval as Artair struggled against her instinctive actions. Oh, he was his mother’s son all right, and she wasn’t silly enough to say that behaving in such an uncomely manner was anything developmental. He was, after all, a boy with the mind of a sixteen-year-old – even if it was a tad cluttered by his youth. Making a note of it she clicked her tongue in annoyance and turned her eyes back to the one that did let her fuss (even if he was more prone to tantrums than his older brother). Still, she didn’t like that look at all – what a thing to learn from his father! – but the way Thalion responded to it made it sound as though it was an uproariously funny expression.

“Arter use fodder-eyes,” he snickered lowly, looking hopefully up at Ardon as though expecting some dashed response. Pursing her lips and giving the child a hard look, the auburn-haired elf contented him and Thalion gave a quiet squeal of amusement before turning to play with the sheets in mimicry of his sibling’s antics.

Her approach checked with cautious eyes that kept almost white irises as he pressed back his power – though it was almost always near his grasp in current times – the Prince gestured to his attendants impatiently as though ordering away flies. Though his manner had not decayed in its eloquence, all members of the palace had had to grow accustomed to the gradual introduction of more brusque ways from the man as the stress of combat manifested harsh pressures on his humors. It was understandable and easily checked when mentioned but, coming off any sort of war-room meeting or training it was the forefront behavior pattern that he followed; therefore, it was almost laughable that he appeared momentarily self-conscious as the Princess Consort approached him and, as he moved to touch at him and his servant began to finish treating his arm, he moved to brush his free hand along her arm.

“I’m not used to thinking about it anymore,” he admitted dismissively, his nonchalant expression disturbed slightly as she touched over the gash which – if Harliven could declare his own thoughts on the matter – was hardly as bad as it looked as, while it did appear quite messy, it could not seem any sort of severe in comparison with the wounds he did not bring home as opposed to their healed scars; he was more or less satisfied with the fact that his wife rarely had to concern herself with attending to his battlefield damages, and he was more or less getting the hang of avoiding the most grisly of them.

After all, that was how it worked, wasn’t it? The Prince would fight, the Prince would survive, and another day would be spent with Silvanus thieving a fraction more of the Ardentian’s satisfaction from their blasphemous, goddamned hands. Still, trying to ploy away from such thoughts in the presence of his less-than-shy bride and the absently watchful eyes of their children, he merely gave a retort unrelated to their situation at large. “And you! What habit is this that you seem so keen to develop – waking me up after I make a wreck of myself? A silly way to express your affection…

[/b]” It was true that the interference had been entirely unwanted but he was internally discordant about whether or not to be irritated with her or to be grateful for her sorely-missed presence; logic deemed it necessary to intervene and choose the emotion that best suited his wife’s mood – or rather, the feeling that looked nicer on paper when he had been spending so much arranging wartime anxieties and campaigns.

The statement she passed him encouraged the Prince to lift a brow in disbelief and he made a disapproving noise as though wondering why the Archdruid had come; still measuring his breathing he dropped his voice to a tone which was quiet enough and certainly lacked pleasure, finally managing his bound arm away with insistence and taking a curious step closer to the woman before him.. “You haven’t eaten yet? And here I thought you knew better than to wait at the table for a troublesome husband when I haven’t put you in the habit of doing so as of late.”[/blockquote][/size]

[Meleth Darkshine]

"Ah, my love, I thought you'd understand by now I'll never be of a mind to 'know better',

[/i]" Meleth teased lightly, pleased with Harliven coming closer and allowing one hand to move away from his side as if it would trail up his chest and pull him down to her, playing on the fact that she all too often whispered her words in suggestive tones that made the good Lady Ardon click her tongue in disapproval. "But Artair's eaten and I assume Thalion has as well, so I decided I'd wait in hopes that you would with me. Because silly girl that I am, I worry on you far too often. Even if I do let you make a solid wreck of yourself from time to time."

The Archdruid's blatantly playful mood was reflected in their children it seemed, Artair's watchful eyes widening with momentary amusement at his brother's comment before narrowing once more in a far more mischievous display. He grabbed the covers away from the mimicking Thalion, using one swift movement – or, it seemed an attempt at a single movement as his childish motor skills hindered him once again – to wrap them around his brother and scoop him in close. The eldest child squealed out something that sounded like it might have been words but was muffled by his own lack of control and his excitement – "YIRASPIRITNAO!" – and seemed quite ready to lose himself again in the joy of having his brother near again. After all, he was really the only other child he saw with any regularity, and thus his only friend that could truly understand him. Ultimately, when Thalion was bedridden, Artair's life was wholly less fun, even with his mother's best efforts to keep him occupied.

The morning all seemed well enough, really. The happy children, the reunited couple, the fact that Matthieu was finally managing to shoo away those who fussed over him and seemed not too terribly damaged. A good morning by standard, regardless of the cold that most seemed to forget in the hustle and bustle. Perhaps it should have been a warning of sorts, as peace was never lingering even in it's briefest moments, but as they all watched eachother, it was a stray glance where Meleth caught glimpse of the trees.

They seemed off, didn't they? Leafless and empty and normal to uncautious or perhaps merely untrained eyes, but to the wary or nature-driven, truly off in the truest sense of the expression. The birds still sang, the sun was out and it seemed as though nothing could be hidden in the spindling arms of the barren or pined forest, but even so, if anyone could hear the woodlands scream in warning there was no one else more suited. Harliven surely felt her heart sink, the warmth of her once lovingly playful aura retracting into herself as her mood shifted into thorough worry and the briefest frown forcing away once soft smiles and amusement.

"The.. The childre–"

A single arrow hissed through the air, unseen from it's point of origin but heard well enough by all elven ears to force the shapeshifter to instantaneously push away from Harliven and run for their sons.[/blockquote][/size]

[Harliven Darkshine]

“You do, I daresay,” the Prince replied to her tender tease, brows knitting together as though puzzled or lightly cross. “I wonder what you’d do if I didn’t come home one day; starve to death stubbornly waiting for me to do so, mayhap, disbelieving of anyone who’d list its futilities.”

Thalion let out an indignant squawk at being whipped away so suddenly, fussing about this sudden shift of power from Arden – who warily allowed it to happen while staring down the Highnesses – to his elder brother. Flailing in the blanket and vying for a means to escape the blinding cloth, the little child declared threatening, “IMMAGETCHOO, ARTER!” Considering this all went about while half in Arden’s arms, Juanita was certainly disgruntled, busying herself with sorting out the mess and the very loud disturbance it made.

“Hush now, you imps -” but not even she could help but quirk a lip at those antics.

Casting a light glance towards their sons and seeming to be overtaken by momentary curiosity at how bright – how happy, how healthy in love they were (for was it not always a thing marveled by Harliven and the disconsolate youth he had become as he’d grown?) – he added, resigned to his wife’s comfortable tones, “I suppose that is a reason to ensure that I come home. I couldn’t imagine you any thinner.”

Unfortunately enough, in the realm of Dustanova, happy moments never lasted long; especially around the Prince who had, in taking his wife, unbalanced the degree of good fortunes his life would endure and thus had to overcompensate with dire incidents. As his Laelorevé withdrew and took pause from her loving gait the Prince’s eyes focused doubly upon her and the perceptive feel of his aura flared suddenly, as though reaching to engulf more ground and pinpoint that which so troubled her. In the feel of earth’s measure, Harliven was unfortunately stunted in comparison to his natural prowess in other fields of sensory; still. In close proximity with Meleth, carefully attentive of her wavering words, it was easy for him to be prepared for some sort of attack – and able to summon his wrath so easily to his hand.

Arden was instantaneously to her feet, sharp ears catching the hiss of a draw and eyes noting the look of her royals; whirling, she engulfed both Artair and Thalion in her arms and tried to draw both downward and – if the arrow was upon the children as their instincts so suggested – obviously trying to shield them from harm’s way until Meleth was quick enough to do so. The elves, nimble enough to snatch most arrows from their projected paths, were immediately upon tracking the source; they attacked the tree line with their own auras, aiming to find the source.

“Inside, lioness,” Harliven bit, suddenly apathetic as he turned in the opposite direction; his fingers burned with fire and it seemed – always the man for drastic actions – his cold mind was ready to burn down the entire stretch of wood before them and listen to it scream to annihilate the threat. Regardless, in all ruthlessness, he could not do it immediately with his bride amidst them (for she was far closer to the earth’s pain than he) and despite the burning of his gloves he discarded them quickly in the snow to reveal calloused, scarred hands, At once Matthieu was with him, ice frosting him as the snow laying thickly over the tree branches suddenly became wild; the wood from which the weapon was fired danced now not with leaves but harshly abusive snows, battering against the air and ground in a turmoil that suggested the ice mage would find the culprit if any of his patterns were disturbed.

[Meleth Darkshine]

And disturbed they would be, not solely because Matthieu would seek those who would dare encroach upon the more sacred of Silvanus' grounds, but in pairing with the fact that it was in the same instant their attackers would will to be seen. Interestingly, as the snow and ice was proving useful in showing the once invisible figures, they were only half seen as they lithely seemed to escape from the very trunks of the trees themselves, separating from the wood and becoming into flesh, proving their unbelievable hiding places within the bark and reason for the forest's distress. It was a racially ragtag team of assassin-folk it seemed, with few sporting the tell-tale signs of horns, some seeming humans – rebellious types, no doubt, as surely no vampire would dare it in this time of day? – and there was one that was most disturbing in his obvious elven characteristics.

More unsettlingly, it seemed he was at the lead of the event if the body-language of himself and his apparent underlings was anything to go by.

Arrows and silent projectiles in the forms of needles and knives and all other things of the potentially terrible craft that was assassination, bounty hunting and stealth sprayed forward towards those who had been rallied together initially in watching the Prince and his sparring partner. Servants and those younger of the healers who had been rushed to tend to the men who now stood ready and waiting to fight would find themselves hard pressed to escape such attacks, and unfortunate as it was, more than a few – in elven term, at least, as surely every loss of those who were allowed freely within the palace grounds would be sorely felt – would be crippled or worse by the metals and poisons that were quickly embedded into their flesh.

It was quick and decisive, and the advancement of their attackers showed no signs of pause in spite of the rumored and to-be-reckoned with force that was Harliven Darkshine and his ilk. Still, they were not assassins by nature and it was obvious in all signs, in spite of their garb or their once commendable silence. They lusted for it too much – it showed in every horribly murderous glimmer behind each and every enlisted Ardentian's eyes.

"Lioness is it now! My dear, you've become far more than I ever would have thought if you're at all able to be considered feline now! Far from the little sparrow I once knew, at least!" chuckled a voice too cold and foreboding to be at all a comfort when one considered the familiarity behind the words.

Meleth, who had been ignoring all things in favor of rushing her cubs away from the rapidly increasing madness did not pause, but hissed through her teeth and glared, earning a 'Whasshappening – who's that?!' from an all too observant Artair. Just as well, however, it seemed she had been more than ready to take on the title of lioness after all, allowing her mate to confront those who'd encroach upon the territory and den while she would work to immediately save the offspring. There was no answer before she and those two who she carried in a football carry on either side of her – hopefully with Arden fast behind – were to disappear into an open door.

Simultaneously behind and amidst the invading force, the branches of the trees seemed to be undergoing an almost afterthought of transformation, forcing the trees to scream further to almost any notable elf or earth mage and shifting bark to flesh and bone. Bloodied and dripping, pulsing and veined, the now red tendrils that composed the branches writhed against the cold air as if in the ancient wood's own disbelief, or perhaps, because the one who controlled them now was merely testing them out and stretching his thousands of newly acquired arms and fingers.

"And a Prince as the guardian! I wonder.. Ah.. –Nevermind. I act the part of only a mere messenger today, and I bear gifts from my Mistress!"

The now living trees moved to reach forward to grip at anyone who'd pass by, Ardentian or otherwise, angered and raging and somehow still tickling the elf that commanded them like a sadistic master to a maliciously trained pet, as shown in the smile he'd so happily bear against cold green eyes and thin lips that were now shown as the cowl that once hid him was lowered. The giants would wrap their tendrils together and slam upon the ground, stretching, reaching, and trying for the blood they craved as thousands of years of emotion was twisted by a dark and seemingly uncontrolled force.

[Harliven Darkshine]

ooc: Epic writer’s block. D: This is the tenth time I’ve rewritten this post. I had to strike members of the Advance Guard several times. xD; Craptastic post! I’m sorry. D:

ic: Arden whirled, helping Meleth clutch at her young at once, growth powers sizzling beneath her fingertips and a quick glance at the party giving the lady all the evaluation she needed; making haste to follow the Princess consort into the refuge that was the palace she covered Meleth’s back, intent on ensuring no stray, toxic trinket might pass her to caress the Prince’s bride nor his sons. And as she did this, the healers whipped their own life-magic to their hands, chaotic and warlike suddenly, though some amongst them were novice youths of combats in comparison to the warriors of Silvanus; still, they were comprised of a lack of fools, for extensive age tempered the elfin race wisely.

There was one thing about the elves that always was peculiarly inhumane, even in comparison to all other superhuman strengths and failures they maintained: unlike humans, demons and even the odd vampire, nothing appeared to take them by surprise. It was not that they suspected everything, but that, spurred on as they were by the teachings of earth’s core, they accepted things as though it were simply meant to be. The fact that there were Ardentians in Silvanus was not phasing; it was simply the truth. That there were demons and humans altogether in ambuscade was not a reviling observation but instead an objective fact. That an elf was amidst that party of transgressors, leading, was wrong and disgraceful to all there, but it didn’t matter: that elfin presence was there nonetheless, on the other side, and there was nothing to do but react to it.

So they did.

Matthieu and Harliven were not entirely exhausted; yes, their sides had heaved in their progressive fighting, sparring as though meaning to kill each other in combat in raising the status of their strength – despite the wounds the Prince had still been healing from, and Matthieu’s recoveries from a gas attack (initiated by ruthless Night Court assassins during combat and not entirely without damages on the humans’ and elves’ side) incomplete, but they were both men of war. Sculpted within the passed two years they, like many others, had learned the dangerous of expending themselves too far in play. Furthermore, the Darkshine royals were long accustomed to a palace guard; though Katalina had been left in the Prince’s stead, it was not as though she would leave him unarmed – nor would any other man belonging to the Shadow and Queen’s Courts. Of course, it took time for any guardian to act but, presently, a pair of them were known.

Known for their golem-like capabilities, the shifting of earth that presented the Scorpion introduced also a whirl of its tails. The serrated teeth it grinned flashed as it curled its appendages defensively about the immediate party – seven spear-headed and barbed weapons instead of the three of eighteen years back – was only a wild extension of its built growth. Perhaps Juugo’s size was explained by his age as it seemed that Lady Feytalié worked up her dolls as the years went by: the scorpion was much larger than when it fought against the Ombras’ servants in the battle of the Filet de Muertre. It took Harliven’s left side, ready to grapple with the monstrously disfigured trees, as Matthieu himself brought the snow to morph and form its own offensive, crushing together into icy water which would burn at the forest’s bloody tentacles before slicing into them like a confetti of clumping blades. A moment’s time would reveal that Matthieu – numbed from healing – had caught several slightly weapons along his form which barely missed their targets; despite his grievances, the warrior persevered.

A clatter of needles and knives into the snow easily alerted the scorpion’s use; projectiles were shot down by its tail, deflected skillfully, and the elves could taste the murderous intent dripping off the killers (oh, but they weren’t killers, Syrus’s Court would protest – they hadn’t the style) just as easily as the screaming of their Royal Wood burned into their minds. Harliven himself, however, had no sympathy; his head pounded with the pains of the trees and yet could do nothing to help; he did not speak to the leader of the Ardentian party but smiled coldly upon them, King of his Court, and sparked life into his fingertips. Though his fire was not true fire (its speed and behavior was rapid and jolting, simulated – like his sister’s lightning) that served him well in face of demons; though he could entice real flame he had no will to make the forest burn so acutely. Instead, he used the thrashing tendrils of the trees as a medium and let the volatile, explosive element that was his magic surge – faster than a blink – into the trees, directing the blow to take what it could from the elf leader and Ardentians alike. Somewhere along the way Harliven had taken up his sword and, unthreatened by the commotion, combined his false fire with Matthieu’s ice in an attempt to quickly drive the opposition out of the dense brush.

“Pay your gifts and leave,” one of the men mocked – it was not important who – as one of the healers staggered off to draw forward the attention of more guards. Doubtless, men would be upon the scene quickly; the gruesome transfiguration of the royal wood would have caught the ears of any of Silvanus’s exceptionally-trained warriors. “Doubtless they will do little to sway our prowess or our temperament.”

[Meleth Darkshine]

"Sway them?" the elf chuckled, harsh tone cutting and damnably amused as the trees he had disfigured and enslaved reached out and knocked away or absorbed any and all projectiles and magics, marring their own already hideous flesh in favor of saving the master that tormented them. The giant's screams of protest went unheard by the Ardentian force, or at least most as the elf remained unflinching save for his gravely intensified smile. "No, we would never seek to sway them, elflove. Why would we seek to rid you of your most redeeming qualities? The reasons you are so much fun to play with?"

Elflove, he'd said, in condescending and biting tones. Was it then that this elf, so obviously so by his more effeminate and sprite-like features, pointed ears and, if not twisted and broken, power over the natural world around him, believed he was above and beyond the rest of his born kin? Was it then that he had considered himself officially disowned by his people, or vice versa? Had he, whoever he was, renounced his ties to Silvanus as a whole rather than his ties to it's monarchy?

Meleth, safely inside with Arden and the sons she would forsake everything to protect, took the time now to collapse upon the floor to the screams that would come only as whispers and wind to those less in tune. Slender fingers would clutch tightly at the roots of her hair, and her eyes were widened and teary, her body trembling, and Artair, at least, would wrap his arms around her and try to shield her ears as if he could hear it too, but only enough to know what ailed her so. Anger, irritation, and a thousand other emotions were unveiled within her, and her struggles came both in the form of fighting for her sanity and fighting against those enraged creatures who would seek to murder the reason for their pains. A wave of fur sprouted along her arms and hid again in quick succession, a tawny brown that whispered the demands of the most violent animal within her.

Charred, spindling remains of once-branches fell to the ground, cut from their original bodies to writhe along the forest floor in agony to the torments they were being subjected to, and again, the elf spoke as he kicked away one such tendril to continue his leisurely advance with his rag-tag entourage. "But still. I've a busy schedule so I will take this advice of yours, good sir! I doubt many of you know what it is, but.. You'll understand in good time."

One of the demons, a monstrous fellow who rivaled even Juugo himself in size and girth, with crimson flesh and purely white eyes, snorted angrily. He shook his head in the manner of an irritated bull, shaking away obsidian locks from his glaring visage and clutched at the massive, spiked beatstick of a maul that he boasted as his weapon. "Take their advice? So we'd leave? We'll kill them all before we leave, I hope you mean."

"Well," the taunting, unsettlingly cool voice of the elf replied to his comrade, all words spoken loud enough either out of hatred or theatrics for the defending party to hear, "Perhaps not all, but who am I to rob you of your fun?"

The trees screamed in pain again, and were forced to lower their branches to a few of the more nimble-seeming Ardentians. Within a moment that seemed far too short, as these were trees after all, in spite of whatever tormented them, those who had been lifted were launched forward in a low throw to the firing elves, and were proven, horribly, as vampires in the way they landed in combat or had avoided projectiles mid-air. The sun was out, but surely, who else would manage?

The rest, of course, being too big or of a less admirable race than the immortals that preceded them, charged forward and the trees that lined the clearing stretched and tore themselves to try and reach for the brothers they had been forcibly pitted against.

[Harliven Darkshine]

ooc: I am so amazingly rusty at combat scenes. :l
-feels ashamed-

ic: "No kitty-face," Thalion suddenly bit loudly, clinging to his mother's torso as though he could dig his claws in and never let go. "Fodder say noo kitty-face!" Seeming absolutely terrified by his mother's pain, the younger elf was in an uncharacteristic panic, drawing energy up beyond his own concerns in an attempt to feed the strength of his naive conviction to the druid that proved herself as his mother. He couldn't quote the things his father would really say, but he understood the general gist - no fighting. Be safe. Don't get involved.

Arden reached forward to grip tightly at Meleth's shoulders, the older elf's aura radiating some sense of warmth - unwavering despite the cries of the trees that came less-violently into her thoughts - as though to correct the Princess Consort's weakness. "You must withdraw from your connection, my lady, and find a stable root," she devised urgently, wishing to hasten further into the palace but knowing the uncontrollable nature of certain forms the Archdruid might take. "Reevaluate your focuses and find something firm to center your heart on! The Nandin must fight their own battle now!"

If only they could all hear those screams as Meleth did.

Outside, the first lunge had been initiated in truth; the refined precision of the more human attackers signified them as inhuman and most likely immortal. Like puppets, truly, they felt no disgrace beneath the cutting rays of the sun and the scorpion welcomed this challenge. It darted forth at once as its partner guardian manifested along the flight path of another of the assumed vampires' move; this one, a slight female - for that was the race in high supply in the Theatrics' order - used a heavy iron club and made to split the skull of the offender. The scorpion made to leap immediately at the charging ox who had spoken before, unphazed by the unsightly weapon it carried and all too delighted to address the problem with its spear-headed tails. Thankfully, their length and number made it easy to make quick work of the matter and - though they would quickly become wise to coming too close - the scorpion had always proved nimble.

As the palace servants made to flee, they were quickly being replaced by a far more menacing force; silent shadows detached themselves from their posts along the walls of the Darkshine structure, aiming crossbows upon those creatures that broke from the protection of the desecrated trees. These precision shooters - unseen by the party and hard to detect - would doubtless penetrate the flesh of a fair handful of the Ardentian's men as a portion of the Palace Guard were suddenly upon the scene. Many wielded the traditional cut of swords, though in various styles and lengths, and chose their opponents accordingly; they were expert in age, the majority senior to the Prince himself, and several wielded less conventional weapons that came in the form of battle-axes, hammers and glaives. A ripping wave of magic lashed out at the uncoming forces, beating them backwards in a rush of wind; an electrical sprint of false flame met the feet of the runners, aiming to burn at their legs and blind their faces with the sudden spray of dust, and the trees still free of the traitor elf's control, dug with their roots entangled in the palace's base, roused themselves drowsily as their dryads blearily awakened from the allure of slumber. They pried their roots from the earth from behind the possessed, mutilated servants that the Ardentians had created and - with powerful convictions - made to smother their efforts to serve.

The ice-mage that proved to be Harliven's companion prevented the Darkshine heir from moving forward in his agitated wrath, instead pushing him back to be treated by the pair of battle-healers that acted akin to pages or squires for - if anything could be said - the King of the battle attended to King of his prisoners, and there was no point in dealing with these lesser servants unless the leader of the Ardentian force addressed the Prince himself. Who would argue against it? It was clear that, amidst all other protections - those upon the scene only part of the Palace's total defenses - no man could reach Harliven without the Prince ordering it so. Matthieu, scowling at this obstinate play to ensnare the elfin party, merely made to catch several of the incoming attacks by flaring the snow up into solid blocks of ice and, in picking out the first of his foes, brought guisers of white hail to batter up at those that had been launched forward into the prey, making to batter them unto the earth. Such displays could do little the faze the elves who already appeared to have enough of the case, bored with the tedious prospect of dealing with such apparently second-rate attackers and almost idly wondering why they had bothered to venture so far into Silvanus territory.

"Is there actually a point to this?" The almost light-hearted inquiry came, surprisingly enough, from the Prince himself. "Or am I to assume this primitive strike is to be the point in itself? I would think better of one of our own when it came to strokes of creativity if not combat." Matthieu's attendant squared his one side while his own worked on his wounds on the other, Harliven himself scowling in impatience as though waiting to receive some sign that it was worth his concern to get involved, blade poised at ready in a disciplined hand. As the trees grappled with one another his fire burned at them, the scent of smoke and charred flesh coming clear into the air and, features twisted with contempt, he locked his gaze upon the elfin Ardentian as pain thrashed through his aura. He and his attendants crouched, ready to spring, a mere few meters from the line of combat; a defensive and ready position.

Meleth. He could feel how harshly this form of combat did affect her.

"If it's an audience you seek, Sir, then let you now speak amidst the bloodshed of your servants and their superiors - my comrades. If it is violence you wish reciprocated, then you are welcome to come forth and die. I tire easily of such things in present day."