Frigid Flowers

With uniforms stained by the ascendancy of their hunts, the trio venture through forests and bogs lining the foot of a great mountain. A mountain into which The Council's accommodations have been carved. Along with a pass that serves no other purpose but to give direction towards the board members themselves. Scaling the rocky surface and reaching the crest with aching calves and wintry pink skin, they peer through gusts of wind-swept snow, spotting icy grey bricks and worn, arched cedar double doors; Home of the Pureblood Covenant. As the grand doors creak loudly against their hinges, raging winds assist in pushing them apart. Halls within cool as a draft rushes through them, causing candle flames to flicker and those residing inside to close themselves off from the open corridors. Nearing the center of a great hall, their shivers start to subside, and warmth from several fireplaces turns the frost on their weapons into droplets that speckle the marble floors. As the aroma of roasted poultry, freshly baked bread, and wine-doused gruel tease their noses, their stomachs begin to rumble and they find themselves seated at a banquet table, awaiting the presence of a servant to assist with the meals to come.

"Welcome home, gentlemen!" Looking towards where the hearty voice comes from, the three spot a woman in a red dress shirt with prominent ruffles at the base of the collar, an open black vest with tails that extend to the backs of her knees, a hefty brass buckle showcasing an engraved crow mid-flight, cuff-less black dress pants, and polished shoes of a nearly identical tone. Her current ensemble- not unlike the room's decor itself- has become something of an omen to the Purebloods. With it, they can expect either the fruits of their labor or another opportunity at being deserving.

With her right palm turned upwards and outwards, and her left gripping the horse-shaped handle of a mahogany threaded cane- which she had redesigned herself- she bows. As her pale skin resurfaces from behind the pointed brim of her tricorn, and the maroon feather atop it retreats to the back of her head, she smiles softly. Her forget-me-nots trail across each spent face, before stopping at an empty seat alongside Belial. The smile wanes as she looks over the three of them once more. Then, she straightens out her back and places her right hand across the left.

"Good evening, Convener Achlys." Belial's desolate eyes stare back into hers as he speaks, knowing what conversation lies ahead.

"Evening, Nostrum Belial." With a knock of her cane against polish, a servant rushes out from one of two adjacent kitchens. Their soles click against the floor as they hastily move towards Achlys with their head held low, stopping only when they are within three feet of the intimidating yet heartfelt woman. "Devough, darling. If you would be so kind as to take the requests of these fine commuters in my absence, I would be greatly appreciative." With a subtle nod of her head, Devough turns away from Achlys and faces the men. "Nostrum Briar, Nostrum Cronn, enjoy your meals. Nostrum Belial, would you mind stepping away for a moment so that we may speak in private?" Without awaiting a response, Achlys tips her hat towards the others and Devough, before turning on her heel and walking off towards the far end of the hall, opposite of the entrance. As she passes several other Nostrum clusters, she acknowledges each as best she can within the small window she allows herself, before heading through a door parallel to that of which the trio had come from. Belial- knowing there is no use in arguing such a request- sighs, stands, and trudges off after her. Leaving his cleaver at the table with a written request for his own meal.

Stepping into the palatial quarters, Belial ensures the door closes behind himself, as to give them the most seclusion possible before speaking. Once the mechanism clicks, he turns towards Achlys, who watches through an arched window as the storm outside eases off, leaving scattered snowflakes that become slightly larger than before, yet fall slower. As she continues to watch without acknowledging Belial's presence, she reaches for a rope at the right of the window. Giving it a few tugs, a distant bell chimes. Moments later, a bell within the room chimes, as if to say that the request has been received. Belial, attempting to distract himself in even the slightest, looks about bookshelves layering all four walls. It isn't the first time he has seen them, but it is the first he has given them any thought. Not one red, blue, brown, black, orange, or velvet spine shows a title. Looking back at the woman as she finishes dabbing a quill into ink, he watches her drag the tip across an open, blank journal, not unlike those that surround him; Filling every shelf and even littering the floor in piles between four and twenty high.

"I take great pride in my ability to keep track of all events that unfold in and around the Covenant's headquarters. As well as those that occur during hunts." Resting her quill at the base of freshly printed words, she directs herself towards Belial. "Unfortunately, to do so, I must rely on the first-hand experiences of those who've lived through such events. As I am not as omnipresent as I desire to be, but I try my best." Smiling faintly, she makes her way over to a dark oak desk in the midst of the room and motions for Belial to sit across from her, disregarding the condition of his clothing against the silk cushion of his chair. As they get comfortable, she shifts the journal's position so that it lays open in front of her, adjusts the quill in hand, and clears her throat. "Share with me, Nostrum Belial, your story. Let us look in on the events that have come to pass and lessen the divide between what your eyes have come to know, and what mine must come to accept."