Okay.. This could be a horrible disaster.
"I was fairly disappointed by the lack of results, Cedric."
"I am sorry, you're greatness." Lord Cedric bowed down, low before the snickering murmurers. He knew that his presence in the murmur room where he so hated was penance, but Cedric could only pray this would be his only punishment. It had been hours before the room was silenced of their quiet, but penetrating screams. Caleb had been there. He supposed he must have been in there for the painting, which now hung in ruins behind vines and thick bushels of flowers; beautiful to the eye, but deadly to the touch. Not unlike the prince.
"Sadly for myself, I cannot leisure myself with the ease of blaming you so wholey for any recent afairs."
'No,' Cedric mused, 'Blame you're 'brother'.' That was why Phobos was so angry. Because his Caleb had upset the silly creatures and Phobos hadn't even managed to stop the beastly child from escaping. Cedric scrunched his eyes closed in a failing attempt to banish the tears of relief welling in his eyes; as angry as Phobos was with himself, Cedric had been sure it would reflect twice as badly on himself and the Lord would have been thankful for death had it been relatively quick. It was all Caleb's fault. The Heart had practically been his, and once the Keeper had grown tired she would be too. She was immortal as far as he could tell, though he supposed that was only with the protecting crystal she hung around her neck as jewellery. He would have found out the truth once her bravery wore away, but then there had been Caleb; the boy had pulled open his helmet simply to mock Cedric with his presence he was sure. But the villagers he had recruited would not have held up. Caleb would be quickly killed without a place to run, and he would have succeded. Phobos had acted rashly out of anger. If Cedric dare whisper it though, the murmurers he was so disinclined to would have given him up in a second. "Th-thank you, my Prince."
"In fact. You will fetch our Frost and Tracker. Give them what they deserve."
...
Elyon Brown stood staring at the phone in her hands. Had she said that? Actually said that? 'Is Will coming?' It was rude, and sounded ruder as she'd spat it to Irma. And then she'd had to agree to go despite the redhead's apparent previously accepted invitation. It would be too obvious not to. And she didn't mean it, Elyon sighed, shoving the mobile deep into the pocket of her pastel-pink skirt. The words had only slipped out. But Will had left her. They all had. But Will was the leader. She even seemed to have managed to get Cornelia to abide by her and take her side; Cornelia did not comply with rules - she was above them. "Honey?"
"What mom..?" Elyon stared down at the ground as her mother walked into the room. She looked up then as a pair of familiar black boots stood squarely in front of her. The boots were very plain; they matched her mother completely. Elyon often felt rather disapproving for a woman so plain to marry a man as plain as her father - cursing her into the depths of having just that exact characteristic. If one of her parents was better looking she might have been beautiful like Cornelia, or funny like Irma. Or at least something. She supposed Will was plain too, if a little depressing, and Elyon could only wonder how she'd nudged into her own little group where even Alchemy was only half-welcome. "Seriously?"
"You're going out? What about your room?" Elyon's jaw tightened as her mother continued. For a woman of her own flesh and blood, Eleanor Brown did not seem to share anything of interest with her daughter; though only Elyon seemed to have anything of interest to share. Elyon liked things that sparkled and music and dancing. Her mother liked reading about history and calling her only child something that couldn't be found in a name book. "You should really finish before you go."
"Whatever mom," Elyon pushed past her mother, suddenly glad for a reason to leave, and pulled on her favourite brown boots, grabbing her long brown coat as she headed for the door. "Bye!" She yelled as an after thought, slamming the door in a way she knew her mother hated as she left for the CD store.