UNMARKED

17: Dangerous Hunger

Feeling out of place, Blayre peered around from her second story vantage point on a guard post at the furthest point of the Royal Dining Hall. The posts, in regular intervals around the upper perimeter of the hall provided an easy view for the sharp shooters.  The guard to her left shifted and she didn't miss the minute movement in her peripheral.

All of her senses were on high alert, especially the magical one, and she could feel every bit of magic being used within the building - and likely within a mile or two of the palace. But that distance wouldn't be necessary today. She needed to talk to Holt. She felt unprepared since she was unfamiliar with the palace. Ripley had told her of some various magicked items throughout the palace that she could now mostly identify with her sense - markers of sorts that gave her an idea of locations throughout the castle, so if she did feel something pass -

It was all so difficult. A small part of her wanted to just come out and tell Holt what she could do. If she had better access to the palace, she could be more precise with her calculations when she Sensed things.

The guard cleared his throat. She glanced up at him. Twelve hells. His brow, raised chastisingly told her that he'd caught her lost in thought. 

We aren't palace guards! She thought, an echo of Ainslee's previous rage surging in her chest.

It was an excuse though, she needed to remain more attentive to the task at hand - even if her mind had been wandering to important places. As if on cue she saw Ainslee's red hair appear as her friend paced in the space that she had been stationed in on the first floor below.

    Fletcher was on the wall opposite Ainslee. He was leaning against a column, tapping a booted toe against the marble floor to some unknown rhythm. Several other guards were stationed around the lower level - enough to be noticeable, but not so many that it seemed like the Royal family appeared to be distrustful of their guests. Which of course they were. Who wouldn't be when Rory had been attacked, the King had likely died of poisoning - though the court physicians were having trouble confirming that.

The doors opened suddenly with a rush of air that Blayre felt up in her second story perch. The hair that commonly escaped her braid, tickled around her face as it moved in the slight breeze, and the smell of dinner drifted up to her, making her stomach growl. She would have to wait to eat until after the royals and their guests had dined.

As if on cue, various servants entered, strutting into the room in a militaristic formation and taking up posts behind each chair at the table.

The Royal Family entered the room led by Briannon, the yet-to-be coronated queen, on the arm of her cousin. She looked splendid in an iridescent black gown that shown green in some angles of the twinkling lights of the chandeliers. Her gold hair tumbled down her back and a small coronet of blackened metal rested on her head. Mourning had cast a shadow over her normally auroral appearance.

Rory was fit to match his blonde cousin in a sharp looking outfit of similar fabric. His was a jacket with a pair of coattails that fluttered against the backs of his knees as he walked. The chandelier light turned his curls into molten embers. He glanced up toward the rafters and caught her eye where she perched - he knew exactly where she was despite the shadows. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and she could feel a flush covering her skin and stepped further into the shaded alcove. 

It was dangerous to call attention to her like that. The guards up at the top were supposed to be unseen, imperceptible. Hopefully it went unnoticed.

Rory escorted Briannon to her seat at the head of the table, where the servant pulled the chair out for her. She gave a close-mouthed smile - tight and tense, Blayre thought, and Rory brushed his lips against his cousin's - his queen's proffered hand.