Thunder rolls in the distance, a fair warning to the locals. If one could find access to climb up the tallest buildings, they would see the bloated dark clouds hovering just beyond their mountains, sparking with jagged currents of green energy. The closer it drew, the sooner protective measures were taken, and the iron conduits were erected throughout the city. A carillon tolled above one of the Churches to alert citizens to head indoors and remain there until the storm had passed. It is not ideal for shop owners, but it is understandable that most would not be able to endure the violence of the storms.

While the streets would begin to empty, only one location continued its responsibilities through the tearing winds and rattling thunder. The Castle of Coldfalls, where the King has already sent out invitations and begun the festivities of a banquet thrown in honor of his sons coming of age. The next in line to rule when Ironjaw the III takes his last breath. The child is reserved compared to his boisterous father, but to any who understood politics, it meant the child had promise, to be a good advisor in the coming days.

Lord Phy’drin, the appointed Demon to sit within the King's court, had taken this as an opportunity. The castle would be busy with the festival and guards on duty would be scattered about the grounds. Most of them focused on the events, others standing in corridors and archways in emptied locations. The King would be distracted, the storm is also a splendid accident he intended to take full advantage of. The Lord hurried along while offering polite greetings to any who passed.

Stopped by Lord Xogz, a goblin who had outlived most of his own kind through sheer force of will, and the head of the Merchant block. The goblin had a knack for finding rare items, and his contribution to the King has been quite favorable. Greeting Lord Phy’drin with a slight bow, Lord Xogz adjusts his gold and jeweled rings, “A splendid evening, Lord Phy’drin! Especially for a coming-of-age party, don’t you think?” His grin reminded Phy’drin of sharks, sharp toothed and tongued when Xogz is in a poor mood. Attempting small talk with the Demon Lord who is too impatient at the moment, “Yes, the storms will herald in the Prince. If you will excuse me, Lord Xogz.”

“Yeah, of course-of course, Lord Phy’drin! We’ll catch up later.” Lord Xogz gives another bow, the jewels on his person making him stand out like a pimp. If told as much, the goblin would be flattered. A short bow and Lord Phy’drin is watched heading not lower down towards the festivities, but higher up, much higher to one of the Castle's outermost spires. Curious. Lord Xogz brushes it off to the Demon being stressed after the Church scandal, probably still trying to clean up such a huge mess.

It is not an entirely incorrect assumption. Lord Phy’drin bypassed corridors with the small transport spell that allowed Court officials to get around the massive castle a little quicker. The King and other Court members could keep track of one another, in case foul play is had. This day would be the only day that Phy’drin would have a chance to do this, without having to leave the castle and bring up suspicions of his whereabouts. Or anyone else paying enough attention to see where he is going.

The stairs are ascended quickly, the narrow passage leading all the way up to an empty room that is just another forgotten part of the castle. It could be changed into a storage space, or a tiny room for a servant if needed. Lord Phy’drin waited for the storm to fully consume the world, the single window rattling as the winds howled, threatening to tear the panels from their latch. Rain in great fattened drops began to crash down against the roof of the spire, and then the lightning struck. Intense flashes of jade illuminate the world outside, strobing wild before thunder raked the skies causing the very earth they lived upon to shudder. The storms were never caring, mother nature unmerciful, attempting to cleanse them all from her foundation.

A lamp is given flame with a tap of Phy’drins’ finger tip, finding now to be the right moment. Taking out a small mirror from his coat, he utters a string of profane words. His reflection in the mirror is a mature white haired male. Three horns protruded from his temples, his hair pulled back in a tail to be neat and well groomed, exposing the slight narrow of his ears. Appearances were kept to their natural state for Demons, or close enough to it. Size in humanoid form is tempered to not destroy smaller areas, and if they have too frightening of an appearance, they attempt to tone it down or use masks and hoods. With cloven hooved feet, the Lord kept his wings within his torso, just for practicality purposes.

The mirror cracks, this is expected. Waiting in silence as the mirror dimmed his reflection and soon no light even refracted from the shard surfaces. The storm made it a little difficult for his keen hearing to pick up on anything minute, but he only need listen for a voice. The mirror's change should be the evidence that it had worked, yet there is only silence.

“Are you going to say anything?” Phy’drin became annoyed, had it not worked?

“No.” A voice hushes through the mirror's magic.

“Normally under different conditions I might find your sense of humor amusing. Right now, I could do without it.” Snapping at the individual on the other side of the mirror. “I imagine you are aware of the Church's activity?”

Silence.

“Did you have anything to do with this?” He adjusts the mirror in his grip, holding it up away from his face but focused visually on its darkened nature.

Continued silence.

“I am going to take that as a ‘yes’,” He shakes the mirror slightly, wanting to strangle them. “I have been throat-deep in conferences and trying to keep the journalists from digging around. I have the King demanding answers, and while he is relieved that these murderers are stopped, he wants to know who killed the Priest. He brought in the Mage College, he has sent out his messengers to question known powerful magic users about the death. He expects me to find whoever did this and bring them in for law bound judgment. Are you trying to be noticed? Are you finally bored enough to weaken your protection?”

Another span of silence, but this time it felt as if they might be considering what he said.

“Your concern is quite charming, Lord Phy’drin. Be careful, the stress is going to ruin your complexion.” Teasing him, he can feel himself grow tense as this person plucked at their nerves.

“You are doing well. The King will give up after a few more weeks, certainly. The Church will be empty handed, the journalists will move on to the next best thing. Were you able to convince the Court to establish more laws on the church?”

“We are in recess. I have written up a document specifically outlawing the Church from harming or encouraging harm to non-human races.”

“But?”

“But we are off by three votes. We need the whole Court to vote in favor, or else it will force me to rewrite the law more loosely.”

“Who are the ones not in favor?”

Lord Phy’drin hesitated. If he told them, would they kill them also? If he did not tell them, would they suffer him too? Yes, is the answer to the latter. To the former, maybe it would end differently.

“Lady Cascus, Lord Brington, and Lady Tempest.”

“The elf, the dwarf, and no surprise, the human.” They did not sound at all impressed with who were the ones pushing back.

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“The next season of voting in Court representatives won't happen for another two years. I am not sure who they are in the pocket of, but the many others in the court might try to vote to push out their votes entirely.”

“The church, more than likely. In any case, see that the voting does go through and they are nullified. If such does not come to pass, then this one will take care of it.”

“Sheiro, no. I never question you, but right now you need to lay low until all of this has moved on. Even if the document does not go through, the Church will still be held accountable for any ill actions to the public.” An attempt at reasoning with her.

“No?”

Lord Phy’drin goes mute, biting his tongue as he regrets immediately saying anything.

“She understands, Lord Phy’drin. Your concern is unlike you, perhaps she should come by and offer you some appreciation.” The sensual vocalizing has him trying to guard himself, she could easily get under his skin and sometimes he wondered if that is what he wanted her to do.

“This one will take a sabbatical, alleviating your stress levels. However…”

Of course.

“If it does not go through, and the votes begin to all turn against you. Or they do not nullify the other votes, and it does not pass. You -will- tell her.”

The dip in her voice elicited a pins and needles feeling through his system, rarely did he fear anything, an immortal also, but when it came to Sheiro he had to bow his head.

“Yes, I will.” What other choice is there, because if he denied her she could level his entire world. Him with it.

“Now go. Enjoy the Kings’ son’s party, she hears they have the best soufflé.” A chortle of laughter and the mirror brightens, its glass reforming back together.

Lord Phy’drin slips the mirror back into his coat, looking to the window rattling on its hinges. The woman is impossible, having captured his loyalty through a debt from many years ago. She helped him climb the system, to be able to win the vote and earn his seat on the Court. While she is violent and arrogant, she knew how to get what she wanted. Not everything with her ended in death, only when something came too close to knowing of her did she bring down her sublime judgment. He had to wonder as well, how did she leave after the Priest, unscathed? No damned could be around Holy without feeling it. And Father Thiago had proved himself as well a violent character.

A hand rested above the breast of his coat where the mirror is pocketed. He realized it then. That is why she so easily agreed to lay low. She’s injured.

----------------------------------------

Descending the stairs, Lord Phy’drin attempted to ascertain the situation at this point. He would never have someone to present to the King as a guilty party to the Priests death. All Phy’drin is able to do is pretend to continue to look, perhaps find someone he can brainwash into believing they had done it, and use them as a sacrifice. But then the person would have to share the same magic as Sheiro, which would be impossible to mimic.

Music began to fill the corridors the closer he arrived to the festivities. Voices overlapped, creating a nuance of tangled noise he is not in the mood for. The guards observe his approach, and he is greeted by the slew of privileged, bowing and exchanging cordial welcomes as he weaves through the sea of rabble. Seeing Guinevere is perhaps the only pleasure he would have tonight, approaching the sonsy figure wearing a honey colored gown and jewelry that compliments her dark complexion so beautifully.

Once she meets his eyes, Guinevere smiles helplessly, extending her hand to Lord Phy’drin in expectation, “You look ravishing as ever, my Lady.” Lord Phy’drin takes the hand to raise and place a chaste kiss to her knuckles, her cheeks warming feverishly.

“Oh spare me, Lord Phy’drin. Your charm will only make the others have to work that much harder to win me.” Guinevere encourages his advances, clearly the two of them knowing one another very well. “Your lips say, kiss me. But your eyes.. Is everything all right?” She could read him so well, Lord Phy’drin thought it a curse but also a fun little game.

“Yes, of course. Should we dance, or are you too busy fending off the other vultures seeking your hand?” He kept a hold of hers, pulling her towards himself with a vicious confidence in her expression.

“Lord Phy’drin.” A servant approached, interrupting their flirtations. “The King is expecting you.”

A deep unnecessary breath and Lord Phy’drin cannot say a word just yet, as Guinevere gives the servant a damning scowl. He smiles at the fire within her, squeezing her hand and offering it another kiss, “My Lady.” Whispering to her. Guinevere is unimpressed, snubbing him with an upturn of her nose, but her smile returns, “Another time then.” Leaving her on the floor to be tempted by the other men. Guinevere, while human, could make them bend knee to her whims. She is neither a witch, nor a sorcerer, she simply knew what she wanted, and how to get it.

Approaching the throne where the King and his son are seated, Lord Phy’drin kneels and bows his head to the two royals, “Good evening, your majesties.” Both Dragonborn watch him with great scrutiny, Ironjaw motioning for Lord Phy’drin to rise, “I wanted to introduce you to a guest. This is King Runihura, he rules over the desert lands East from here.” The King motions to a tall robed older man. He could easily be mistaken to be Elven, his long narrow ears and a thin figure, but his skin showed a hue of gray that seemed sickly, contrasting the normal elven radiance. That, and the King did just say he came from the desert lands?

Lord Phy’drin bows to the other King, and King Runihura does not reflect the gesture, his solid white eyes burrowing into Phy’drin, graciously only offering the Lord a smile. “You are the Demon Lord on the appointed seat of the Court, yes?” King Runihura’s milky eyes could be felt roaming Lord Phy’drin.

“Yes.”

“Outside of current events, King Ironjaw has been singing you praises. In a land of numerous species, it must be taxing to keep the Demon’s in check. By nature, they are not very subtle.” King Runihura seems to be understanding, his voice dry and coarse.

Lord Phy’drin chuckles and nods, “We definitely are not subtle.” Throwing himself into the brimstone for the sake of his own pride of the Demon Nation. “However, King Coldiron has created a population willing to speak up where rules are broken and unfortunate violence to take place.” Singing praises to his King.

“Outside of current events.” King Runihura repeats, an edge to his voice that causes Lord Phy’drin to feel attacked. The Lord however continues to smile, while King Ironjaw looks to the fellow King with disapproval. An uncalled for comment.

“Outside of this, yes.” Lord Phy’drin humbly echo’s.

“I will be looking forward to your progress then. Whoever killed that Priest should be brought to justice immediately.” King Runihura reaches to stroke his gnarled fingers through his beard, “It would look poorly for King Ironjaw to have a lingering stain such as this.”

Pressure, the foreign King is putting pressure on him. Is it on purpose, where King Ironjaw had discussed his displeasure and King Runihura saw it as an opportunity to make Phy’drin squirm? The Lord would not put it past them, Kings had their own ways of handling situations that could potentially lower the morale of the people. When the people become disheartened with their King, it leads to voting them out, or even a revolt.

“I am confident I will be able to bring justice to the Church, your Majesties.”

Both King’s nodded to him, King Ironjaw looking at the festivities, “My son is interested in partaking of flesh tonight to complete his coming of age celebration. He shows interest in two females, would you bring them to the front for the Prince.” A common ending to the night of one coming of age. Lord Phy’drin bows and waits for the Prince's choices, then goes to speak with the girls who are eager to be with the Dragonborn Prince. No surprise there.

After delivering the Princes’ ladies of choice, Lord Phy’drin heads back into the swarms of people to find Guinevere. The woman is uncanny, surrounded by a group of males who listen to her tall tails she just loves to spin. He would drift to the outside of the barrier of men, pacing around them until she could see him. A look here, a smile there, Guinevere ends her tails and gracefully breaks through the barrier of bodies to reach a hand out for Lord Phy’drin. The man grips her warm touch with his own gloved fingers, and proceeds to walk away with her, to the rousing disappointment of the other bachelors.

“You are shameless.” Lord Phy’drin pulls her into a dance.

Guinevere brandishes a smile at him so ruthlessly, moving to the lead of his steps, “That is why you like me so much.” It is her that leans upward on her toes to kiss him, sparking surprise in the demon's face. It is a quick peck but enough for him to brim with desire, his gaze baring down at her with a heathen's depravity causing a pleased laugh to arise from her. The waltz of his steps would take them past everyone else and into the halls, where they would meld into the shadows and explore their affections much deeper.