Isolde stands near the edge of the grove, in all her mirrormask'd glory. A mischeivious, but interested expression behind the mirrors.

A messenger arrives, delivering a message to Niccolo before departing.

The Stone Grove has its own mystic air that lends all the atmosphere a ritual or Shamanic service would require. The stones that tower over any man show wear and age seasons past living memory, its surrounding flora found nowhere else save here. It is a place that commands reverence from even the most blasphemous, its presence both intimidating and awe-inspiring when one reminds themselves of the history it has must have seen.

Having set her place at the altar in dead center of the towering pillars, Freja wears simplistic and skin showing leathers. There is no outright nakedness, contrary to popular belief and speculations, though the bare abdomen and arms show runes applied to the skin temporarily for the ritual. The only thing that probably sticks out the most is her albino bear headdress, one pink eye missing and replaced by a jagged scar that clearly had something to do with its removal.

The altar is covered with a snow white fur, a drinking horn resting against a stone mortar and pestle. A few candles light her face and the seating areas in the early twilight of the evening, but the shadows cast by the stones leave enough room for minds and imaginations to wander at will as the night progresses.

Whether drawn by simple curiosity about the Northern Ritual or merely here for a chance to see and be seen, Prospero now walks into the Stone Grove. He comes in the silken finery of Lycene tradition, but seems to lack the aura of importance that others wear - which is to say, he doesn't come with an escort of guards. He circles the stones slowly, studying the setup of furs and stones, of runes and Northmen, in quiet contemplation.

Dawn's presence is no subtle thing: the pale shimmer of silks, and light catching opals and moonstones sees to that, even if the small cluster of Grayson guardsmen at the base of the hill weren't clue enough that the Lady is here. But she approaches without her guards and adopts a quiet mien, with hands clasped at her waist and respectful gaze turned upon the woman positioned near the altar. A moment is taken to study Freja before she cuts a glance aside, small nods given to the many familiar faces here.


    It is with haste that Darren makes his arrival, though he seems to be in the company of the Grand Duchess, Esera. A glance will be made to Isolde, there at the edge of the grove, as he enters, and it's where he'll leave Esera before he heads up towards the altar. He doesn't go up there, where Freja is standing, but he makes his way close and off to the side, eyes momentarily scanning the crowd that's gathered before he'll turn his eyes up to his cousin.

Moving to where he is standing not too terribly far from where Freja is standing to address to crowd. Fergus is fully armored and armed, his strong arms crossed over his chest as he looks out over the crowd. A shamanic ritual may not be the most popular of things to be done, inquisition and all, and apparently Fergus intends to be the bumper between anyone that could get pissed off and his sister.

Esera arrives at Darren's side. She is dressed in black leather, form-fitting, and if her hair was done in any sort of ceremonial style when she began her day, the wind has since blown it free of that style, her hair left to tumble in dark waves around her shoulers. As Darren leaves to approach the stage, she remains at the edge of the grove, watching the crowd.

There's nearly nothing about Acacia's appearance that might have her stand out, aside from the fact that she didn't seem to have donned anything even remotely fine. She'd rounded a half-circle about the seating area with lighter strides and a more comprehensive scan of those present, before opting to stand just upon the outside edge. To her credit, she clasps her hands behind her in some semblance of formal poise, shattered only by the slightly roguish slouch she fails to abandon.

Niccolo arrives to the Stone Grove with a few of his guards, which he leaves at the edge of the gathering. The duke walks further in, dressed in leathers rather than Lycene silks. His expression is pensive, his hands clasped behind his back. Spotting Isolde and Esera, he offers a small smile in each of their directions. Those dark brown eyes of the Velenosa nobleman scan the place and familiar faces like Dawn and Acacia gain dips of his head as well in recognition.
    His eyes settle on Freja, and there they linger as he watches her and inclines his head to her as well in a distant silent greeting.

Anything with Arvani culture is something of interest to Mason. So of course he was going to show up to something like this. Dressed in one of his thobes and agals of grey and oranage as is native to the sandy country of the Dune Kingdom, the diplomat and ward of Grayson was more than happy to poke his head in and check out what's all the hubbub about various types of ceremonies. That kind of clothing, foreign as it is, matches the fact that man himself is not of Arvum. Anything for a chance to learn more about stuff, however, he jumps at whatever opportunities arrive. But now that he's here, he goes about peering, making random inquisitive questions.

Isolde smirks faintly from her place on the outskirts, leaning against a place, corssing her arms over her stomach lightly, her expression becoming a remote thing, lingering mostly on Freja as the woman prepares, looking over the altar with some interest. She makes no move to approach or acknowledge anyone, keeping very much to herself.


    Darren will nod to Fergus as he stands on the opposite side of the altar to his cousin. Though unarmored and instead in his leathers, he is not without his sword there at his hip, perhaps to play the same sort of role as Fergus does. He keeps his arms to his sides though, rather than across his chest, Freja admired before he turns his gaze once more to the crowd, noting those who have gathered and those who enter the grove still.

What does one wear to a shamanistic Northerner ritual? Well, Lady Sylphie Zaffria certainly doesn't know. It seems she has played it /relatively/ safe in black silks, except that her necklines plunges low. She arrives alone, no cousin or Valkieri or even a guard to walk her through the city. She slips quietly onto a bench, arranging her skirts smoothly in one motion.

Sylphie has joined the benches.

Esera is not one to stand at the outskirts of anything, and once she's done looking at the crowd -- looking, with great interest, from face to face, figure to figure -- she goes to take a seat at the benches, her legs crossed at the knee, an arch in her back that is just a shade imperious.

Esera has joined the benches.

Arik is standing by himself, watching those who enter with a stoic patience. The Sword of Whitehold has been here for some time now, having been a recent arrival to the city. Up until a few months ago, he would attend these frequently. He's dressed in the traditional attire for his people, furs strapped about him. If one were to imagine northern warriors of old, Arik would definitely fit the image. He remains solitary and quiet, even as people he recognizes filter in.

Silas happens by, drawn by curiosity more than any true devotion to the shamanistic religion. He recognizes a few among the crowd gathering - offering Acacia a meek wave - before he moves to get a better view of the proceedings. If this made him stand next to complete strangers, so be it!

While she may not be one accustomed to being social and speaking in front of crowds, if there was ever a time and place that she was in her element this is it - Freja voices rises easily over the hushed crowd, the enclosing stones offering their own reverberating of syllables, creating a diaphonic effect that adds to the mystic setting in whole. "Now that we have gathered, I see many faces that are not Northern. While this ritual itself would take merely..." she pauses, counting comically on her fingers, "....approximately ten to twenty minutes by its lonesome at a turtle's pace, we have time to spare and I will explain briefly what a Shaman is for you newcomers."

She clears her throat and carries on. "A Shaman is not a priest in essence, we are a mediator between the spirits and of this world. Our relationship is a symbiotic one - sacrifices made for the transaction and benefitting of their wisdom, their guidance, and on the rare occasion their direct interference. It is not something that one becomes, but rather something that someone has always been." She pauses, the bowing of her head allowing for questions to rise from the crowd at will.

Dawn gathers her skirts to lift them above the damp grass and drifts to take a seat on the same bench occupied by Esera. The Grand Duchess is offered a small nod as she settles, a murmur of greeting, before she attends closely to what Freja says.

Dawn has joined the benches.

Having found a place with a decent view and little chance of being in the way, Prospero has elected to stand. He clasps his hands behind his back and sets his feet about shoulder-width apart. Here and there a quiet nod of greeting is sent towards those that are recognize, or just happen to look his way. When Freja begins to speak his attention turns fully to her, listening intently.

Ianthe is drawn by curiosity as well. The Stone Grove was one of the more interesting landmarks in the area. While her own faith lay firmly elsewhere, she always found it useful to keep an open mind, especially where the divine was concerned. The gods used mortals as they would. They didn't much care what the mortal believed. Ianthe's dark eyes are riveted on Freja, her normally mischief and humor-filled face rather more somber than usual.

Esera has left the benches.

Esera has joined the benches.

Having heard talk of some Northerner ritual being performed, Dagon arrives at the Stone Grove, a hint of curiosity shining in his dark blue eyes. Spotting some benches for people to sit, he heads over, and then stands to the side, allowing any ladies to have a seat first. Freja's comments tug at him, and he turns his attention on her, licking his bottom lip a moment but remaining silent.


    Darren's head will tip up to watch Freja as she begins to speak, a fond little smile upon his lips. He's proud, perhaps, though the emotion is gone in an instant. He'll bow his head afterward, eyes returning to the crowd. He has no questions, and so instead he'll look for people who do. For a moment, he squints at something in the far corner of the grove, but then he'll look towards the people at the benches, a brow quirked as he waits to see if someone has anything to say.

"And how do you know?" Niccolo dares to ask, stepping forward. There is a hint of a smile on his face. "You say a shaman is born such, how do you know?" The duke asks, having not claimed a place to sit down for his own yet.

Dawn draws a breath and calls on the heels of Niccolo's own questions. "With respect, your highness, but what spirits are these?"

The stones seem to hold a great interest to Mason. Diplomat in title, but a scholar and adventurer at heart. He hasn't quite approached anyone about any particular questions about what's involved, what gods these still strange Arvani people pray to, but clearly there's a particular importance in the affair. So he's respectful and reserved, but still all smiles as he usually is. The thobe he wears billows behind him and he moves from large standing stone to the next, peering it over. But then someone is talking longer than the other, and the man from Ahj'on wanders his way back to the crowd, eyes a bit owlish. He ponders. Questions. "Might I ask what is all involved?, you highness." he finally ventures. It's a tame questions to be sure, but form a many who strives to learn more about culture, this is fascinating. "Is there are a particular reason? A blessing for seasons? Or simply and offering to the powers that be out of respect and admiration? Does a shaman hear these spirits? Do they act as, perhaps, a conduit of sorts?" No, the foreign man doesn't have questions at all.

Arik's gaze slowly shift from Freja, to Niccolo, his head tilting to the right in surprised curiosity, despite any emotional response. His lip twitches slightly, before he returns his attention to Freja, his arms crossing at the idea of all these skeptics in the crowd.

Nodding to Darren when his cousin moves up to stand on the opposite side of Freja from where Fergus himself is standing. Fergus wasn't really looking forward to his sister asking people to ask questions, as that's probably where tensions might rise. Fergus glances over at Freja when a couple people ask how one knows that they are a Shaman.

As the questions begin to filter forward, Acacia utilizes the distraction to slip further to the side, weaving casually towards Ianthe. Niccolo and Dawn had received the bulk of her attention upon their questions, but she flashed a cheeky kind of grin fleetingly towards Silas in an effort to gauge where the Guardsmen ended up.

Sylphie is leaning towards Esera and Dawn, murmuring conversation. Unfortunately, women-talk means she doesn't have time to question Freja.


    A brow quirked, Darren will frown ever-so-faintly, as Freja asks for questions and others entertain her. His attention drifts from Niccolo to Dawn, and to Mason as well, though he doesn't seem concerned.

Isolde glances curiously to the questions being asked, but she remains, in the shadows if possible, offering no reaction to questions or answers, simply observing in silence.

Ianthe turns her head slightly towards the sound of Acacia's voice behind her, murmuring in a low tone, "Nothing like this. Have you?"

Silas ends up next to Ianthe, who seems to be in a state similar to his own. The guardsman offers a friendly smile and nod in greeting, but the flurry of questions from the crowd quickly snag his attention again. Which, evidently, is where Acacia has found herself too. He leans back and quirks his brow. "Ah, is Mistress Acacia impishly whispering again?"

"It is a calling. Simply something you know one day. Did you always know you would carry a sword? You may have been told such, but it wasn't until the weight of it is in your hand that you know the echo of it in your soul and the imprint that was already on your being. It is not gradual, it is instantaneous when it occurs. It only takes some longer than others who have it to come to terms with it, to embrace it." Freja answers Niccolo with a wholly neutral expression, her eyes turning slowly to regard the next inquiry aimed at her.

Dawn now falls under the sharp gaze of the Scout of the Snows. "These are the spirits that speak in long forgotten vales, from primordial deep depths that existed and spoke to us in the North ages before the Pantheon came to be. It is a ..difficult question, and definition you see. I could go on, but I fear the patience and schedules of the men and women hear. " A pause and she holds up a hand to Mason. "It is a ritual to ask their guidance in the troubles that plague our city and King."

men and women here*

Dawn's head turns from a brief moment of conversation with the ladies on the bench. She's smiling and meets sharp eyes with keen ones. "Grayson respectes the schedules of the men and women here as well. Thank you for your answers, your highness." She inclines her head to the woman at the altar, and smaller nods are directed to the men who flank her.

Now Prospero speaks up. "What would you have of us, Shaman Freja, who are unfamiliar with your ritual? So we might not interfere by acccident." Shaman, not Princess. As if in this moment her most important title and role were that of the ritual and not some accident of blood. It is not a word spoken with a lack of respect, merely a a bit of weight loaned to the preceedings.

Sylphie's smoky gaze lifts to the altar as Dawn speaks to Freja as well, for all that she is offering one last murmured word. Her gaze lingers for a moment on the shaman, sliding briefly sideways to her brother, and then returning to Esera beside her.

His questions asked, Niccolo looks over at Dawn and Mason as the two of them also speak up. His attention returns to Freja when she provides her answer, and the duke lifts his head, considering her words. He inclines his head, accepting them. "Thank you, Your Highness. Casual steps take him past Ianthe, Silas and Acacia. His eyes linger on the latter one, and he dips his head in greeting to the group, before moving on to claim a place at the benches.

Niccolo has joined the benches.

Fergus glances from person to person asking the questions. Fergus then begins looking at everyone else gathered, no one has tried to ruffle any feathers, so Fergus seems to be a bit more at ease, his arms uncross over his chest and hang loosely at his side.

Kieran has been here the whole time, sitting very quietly with his back against one of the monoliths. He watches those who are not of the North as they ask their questions and observe the ritual.

Ianthe manages to restrain a laugh into only a grin, so as to not cause offense. She winks at Silas and then sobers, slightly, when the Duke passes by and greets the group with a nod. Once he was out of earshot, Ianthe mutters to Acacia and Silas, "We need all the help we can get."

Dagon hears the questions asked and then looks towards the altar, his gaze landing on Darren for a moment and he flashes the man a small grin. Listening to Freja speak, he tilts his head, taking the information in. In response to Prospero, the Thraxian speaks, "Pardon me for saying as much, my lord, but perhaps we should remain silent and let the ritual take place. I, for one, am quite glad that House Redrain has permitted us to witness this."

Dawn's answer given and responded kindly, Freja gives the Grayson a kind smile before turning that same rare expression to Niccolo. Another question is posed and the Redrain Princess turns a piercing eye to Prospero. "Simply watch, listen, and leave yourselves open. A closed mind withers and dies. As people, we are all tied to one another. Like branches on a tree, we may expand ourselves and grow in different directions, yet our root remain as one. In the face of great darkness and shadows, we must look to the stars and create our own cloudless night before the hour of dawn redeems us." She bows her head respectively and looks about. "If there are any more questions I will answer them before we begin?" She gives any last inquiries a final chance.

yet our roots*

Dagon's grin is mirrored. "She did ask for questions, my lord," Prospero says. When Frejya answers the question he nods. "Thank you." And once more the Fidante falls quiet, observing.

Silas finishes his whispered conversation with the two ladies, canting his head curiously at Ianthe's wink, to look up at Niccolo with a friendly smile and nod. "Greetings, Your Grace. That was a good question."

Esera has left the benches.

Esera has joined the benches.

"Thank you, Sir Silas," Niccolo says to Silas quietly, just as he sits down on the bench.

Dagon shoots Prospero a glance, narrows his eyes a moment, then decidedly shifts his attention to Freja and whatever ritual is about to occur.

Acacia continues to loiter just a shoulder back from Silas and Ianthe, murmuring to them both with her grin untarnished. She'd spared a wink towards Niccolo, perhaps a little brazen, though it was followed by the more respectful inclination of her head. Her focus steadied on Fergus for a moment or two, before focusing back on Freja.


Darren's attention will momentarily focus on Prospero and Dagon, looking at them and between them both, before he'll simply look back across the crowd gathered. He shifts in his step, folding his arms across his chest now, a more comfortable pose.

Ianthe bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing and murmurs softly to Acacia with a gleam in her dark eyes, "I believe I referred to you as the epitome of grace, my lady."

There'd been a wary look towards Dagon at his interactions with Prospero, but Acacia cleared her throat somewhat and voiced up towards Freja, "Princess-- Shaman Freja. Can you perhaps give us a summary of what we'll be witnessing? So that we can understand it as we watch?"

Silas hmms contemplatively and turns his head to glance in Dagon's direction. He stops to nod in agreement with Ianthe. "Very graceful." There's another whisper, but it seems he's redirecting his attention back on the ritual itself now. Or what will eventually be a ritual.

"In short, the ritual is one of great gravity. It is no mere sickness that afflicts our King. If I want wisdom and guidance, I must be prepared to pay a heavy cost. Blood will be given, but only my own. No great injury will come of me but..." Freja waves a hand vaguely to the rare blooms that blossom only here in the Stone Grove, found nowhere else in any land so far explored. "This place has its own ways. Muddled together, their sacrifice and my own, and with the proper words and revereance given, may assist me as they have done before."

That said, the Shaman drops a collection of the few choice fragile flowers in the mortar and makes them into a fine mash, carefully emptying the contents into the antiquated drinking horn covered in runes on the altar. She glances up momentarly, scanning the crowds for any revulsion or hesitation.

The question from Acacia causes Niccolo to look in her direction. There's a touch of a smile on his features when his protege speaks, and his eyes then find Freja. "Sacrifice. I think that is a concept we can all understand, regardless of culture," the man observes, with a small pensive nod.

Dawn has been fairly quiet, mostly still. But Freja's latest explanation sees the Grayson Lady's eyes snap to the shaman and lock there. In her lap, clasped hands press more firmly together and then her topmost thumb begins to tap against the digits laced below it.

Prospero's grin softens towards a small smile, and there it remains. He turns his murky blue eyes back to the altar and listens as Freja first answers the additional questions and then begins the ritual.

Acacia inclined her head, gratefully towards Freja at her explanation. She continued to murmur a bit between Silas and Ianthe, but even this tapered off once the flowers began to be ground.

A half-smirk and a nod for Acacia, but she doesn't speak again since the ritual appears to be beginning. There is no revulsion or discomfort to be seen in Ianthe at the description of the ritual. Only curiosity and, oddly, hopefulness.

Mason isn't //quite// sure his questions were answers, but he listens well enough for someone who is totally alien to these kind of things. Well, maybe not completely, but certainly Ahj'oni rituals are a bit different than what he's witnessing here. He looks in enthused, though maybe a little crestfallen at the fact that he didn't bring something to write down notes with.

Silas seems to regard the bloodletting with a slight frown but little more. Being a knight, it can be generally assumed he sees blood frequently, but there was something unnerving about someone harming themselves. At least to him. His attention doesn't break, however.


As Freja talks of sacrifice and begins to mash the flowers together, Darren will take a slow step or two back, closer to the altar. A wary glance is swept across the grove, before he turns his attention up to Freja, watching her begin her work.

Arik watches on in silent revery, his head bowing as the ritual commences. His attention is snagged by Darren, who he watches for a few quick moments before shifting his gaze towards the crowd to judge their reaction to the bloodletting.

Dawn betrays no hint of hesitation, no disgust. She tracks the course of Freja's movements, every action, with eyes made silver by the wash of growing moonlight overhead. When Darren shifts, when the other Redrain men size up the crowd, she ignores them. Her gaze focuses on the horn Freja holds, ticking now and then up at the shaman's face. Impassive though her expression might be, there is expectation sketched in every line of her outwardly calm posture.

Dagon watches on, seeming not to be bothered by anything that the ritual has to show so far. He stands, arms crossed, his dark blue eyes intently on Freja and the ritual.

In this moment the crowd is completely forgotten as Freja becomes engrossed, near possessed by the task at hand. No questions are posed as interruption to her moment of reverance. As the hush falls over the crowd and the stones, an eerie and tangible silence falls over all. The crackling of the torches positioned around the pillars seems a roar, the distant motes of light that are fireflies a blaze against the shadows cast by the pillars, burning out as quickly as they appeared.

The Shaman reaches a steady hand out for a solid obsidian knife on the altar, carved from a single piece of stone ages ago. One one fluid, graceful arc of both arms, Freja raises her arms and brings them to just at eye level. The slow and poetic movements of her pale flesh are exact, a dance she has known for years before the rituals ever came to fruition.

The blade cuts her palm swiftly, the tool dropped with a surprisingly loud 'clang' to the altar. She presses her fingers against her palm, squeezing tightly until her knuckles turn white as the dark sanguine pools in the drinking horn along with the concoction she had just poured into it.

Better late than never. Deva's steps are light and quick, bringing her to the edge of the crowd gathered. She nods a general greeting, remaining respectfully silent while folding her arms in front of her. The ceremony, and Freja, are both observed with a solemn expression etched onto her face.

Niccolo does not look bothered by what is being witnessed, the man turning from a few quiet words at the benches to look at Freja once more. He grows somber when Freja makes the cut, but those dark brown eyes watch the ritual with open curiosity.

Gaze turning to Freja once more when she begins to crush the flowers, Fergus then looks back to the group who has come to witness the ritual, no signs of anyone ready to go nutso, Fergus takes a half step closer to Freja, as if anticipating his assistance being needed. When Freja slices open her palm and drips the blood into the tankard, the Prince's jaw tightens and eases, as if he is grinding his teeth, waiting.

While Mason looks on, he isn't oblivious to Dawn's presence. So while he watches, he slowly makes his way over to the Grayson Voice. He manages at look over at her, perhaps curious, before his eyes go back to the ritural being performed. By the look of wonder on his face, clearly his attention is pulled drastically in Freja's direction, eyes even a littler wider once he sees that she actually does cut her hand open. Yeah, the foreign man is fascinated.


    With a neutral expression, Darren will no longer eye up the crowd. After all, there's no sense of disruption. So, his attention goes up to Freja, his own lips pursing into a thin line as she cuts her skin. He'll take another step backward as well and towards Freja herself, until both he and Fergus are basically on either side of her. He does nothing, but he watches Freja still, all the more closely.

It's not unusual for Acacia's gaze to traverse to those who would be speaking. Mason's presence had stolen her focus, if only for a brief while, a squint to her eyes, before she'd carefully rifled through the interior of her cloak to locate a new-looking scroll case. After a momentary gauging of the surroundings, she very quietly stepped back if only to try to locate someone else, with a subtle bribe, to carry something to the Prince and slip it discreetly in beside him. Aside from that gesture, she'd kept her focus upon Freja with that curiosity intact.

Dawn tilts her head at the shadow that falls upon her. Mason is recognized half a beat later and the foreign prince earns a small, flickering smile. But when looking away from Freja, it's evident she's distracted, and all too quickly her focus returns to the altar-- impassive still in spite of the blood, and the implication of its addition to the horn.

While the blood-letting itself didn't produce much of a reaction in Ianthe, the sound of the ritual knife clattering against the altar, especially in the hush of the crowd, made her body tense in a startled flinch. Ianthe clenches her jaw, inwardly cursing her reaction, before refocusing on the Shaman.

Isolde looks at her own hand, than back to Freja. She smiles to herself, still quiet in her little bit of the grove.

Silas lets his eyes fall to the horn, more distracted by where the fell than by the dancing, curiously enough. He remains silent.

A leather bound case and writing utensils just magically appears in Mason's hands discretly? Where did this come from? There's an almost bewildered expression he offers Dawn, not quite sure what to make of it, making his thobe flutter slightly. Then a quick look around to see who might've deposted such a gift into his hands. Really, he needs to repay that kind of kindness! Still, leave it far from him to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he opens the case and starts to quickly jot down his thoughts.

Dagon continues to watch in silence, head tilted slightly as he continues to watch the ritual. He watches Freja open up her palm with the obsidian knife, eying the tool with some interest before it's discarded. His gaze then shifts to the drinking horn. Then Freya. Then drinking horn. He lifts his brows, almost as if there's a question on the tip of his tongue.

When did Marcas get here or was he always here? Seems he has worn some rather traditional garb tonight, including a large bear fur cape. He stands off to the side, keeping an eye on the entire proceedings with his wrists hanging on the head of his axe and the hilt of his sword. Taken to pacing to a new location with a slow, predatory gait as his storm grey eyes take in various faces. Crossing his arms over his chest at his new post to keep watch over things. Other Northmen lurk around him and like their Captain, keep a watch over the proceedings from a distance.

Still with hand dripping from the cut she made, Freja removes the albino bear headdress and brings its muzzle against her mouth, murmuring softly against it while petting back the fur from the jagged scar that rendered one pink eye gone - the death wound. Her blood stains it anew, but closer inspection and sharp eyes will note that rust colored stains cover a few other spots about the face of the snow white bear. Whatever this piece may be, it is pivotal to her role as a Shaman of the North.

She sets it down and to the side with love, giving it one last red-handed pet, Freja moves back to the archaic drinking horn, mindless of her steadily bleeding hand. It is lifted to her lips where she speaks a few soft words at the rim. They are not loud enough for any other ears to discern, but there is rhythm and a certain candence to them that belies a formality that remains unknown to the crowd. Her eyes close, and then with one fell swoop the Princess downs the entire mixture until a black spittle is running from the corners of her mouths.

She lowers the horn and their is an unsettling, dead silence. Her lips entirely stained obsidian rather than vermillion, her gaze unfocused on anything as she stares out and over the crowd on something that doesn't seem to be there.

Dagon takes an involuntary step forward. Oh, he had expected this when he saw the blood going into the drinking horn but seeing it done is another thing entirely. He catches himself before he can take another step, but his eyes are intent on Freja now, interest sparkling as he continues to watch.


    Darren's eyes will flash to Dagon when he sees the man starting forward out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't move, but his eyes stay on the man, watching Dagon until he's sure there is only that one single step forward. Then, he'll simply nod, and return his attention back to Freja, his lips remaining a thin line, and his jaw just slightly tense.

Dawn has left the benches.

There's no bold need to cast herself as the Prince's subtle gifter, here and now. Although Acacia's dark eyes had watched the transaction, perhaps if only to ensure her bribe didn't go wasted and the item was delivered, her focus was called back to Freja. The interaction with the albino snowbear headdress brought her brow tugged down just slightly, with a sway of her form a bit more curious when she sought to see past Ianthe and Silas to the ritual beyond.

Dawn also stirs, rising from the bench and the company of Lycenes. A sidestep carries her closer to Prince Mason, her head dipped as she passes a few soft words to him. Throughout, her eyes are fixed upon Freja.

There is a wince and a flicker of disgust which skips across his face, when Freja does what he expected her to do. Silas turns aside and whispers to the two women he is currently next to.

Being raised and trained a scholar, which is somewhat a good field to have when you wander around with a bunch of Grayson adventurers, Mason has become quite apt at being able to not have to look at what he's writing to be able to read it later. Also the wherewithall to know when his pen is getting dry on ink. So he continues to scribble down notes, though granted, it's done in language that likely nobody but him can really read. Watching on with the ritual, he writing only pauses when Dawn comes up to him. A couple blinks before he continues to keep doing what he's been down, though albeit a little slower.

The crackling of the torches stops, the fireflies snuffed out and Freja is left there, her gaze stretching far beyond registering any stimulus or sight in this moment or lifetime. Those that know the royal scout know of her stalwart nature, the stamina and energy to push through any trifle or burden. There is something in this moment that is unexpected for even her and the pale woman's eyes go wide and owlish suddenly, lips parting but not uttering any comprehensible syllables. A look of fear and the tall woman, typically so stalward and steadfast, collapses. Her body ragdolls and she crumples and vanishes behind the altar, the drinking horn falling with a loud clatter to the altar so its black contents can stain the white fur laid out there.

Niccolo has been watching the ritual with interest, with a distinct lack of disgust at what took place, but with a curiosity that he doesn't bother to hide. When Freja collapses, however, his eyes narrow and he turns to look to Fergus and from him, searches for Darren. He glances at something Esera quietly says, but then brings his hands together in front of him, clasping.

Acacia cuffs a hand about the back of her neck, that open-mouthed stare what had brought about a mild discomfort which transitioned to the sway of her form. But her arm dropped down once the Shaman Princess collapsed, her eyes wider when she leaned forward and then shot a look first to Marcas and then to Darren.

stalwart, not stalward*


    Darren's been waiting for /something/, looking closely at Freja for some kind of sign. And then it was there, in her pale skin and wide eyes, and the prince reacts. Quick on his feet, he comes in behind her, there to grab hold of her when she suddenly drops to ensure she doesn't hit the floor. He cradles her in his arms, sighing a little as he steps wordlessly over to Fergus, to make the exchange and pour Freja's body in his arms when he's ready to take her.

Marcas and his men move forward but not to assist Freja, instead to block any those not of the House to go to her side. No weapons are drawn, of course, only some stern looking and tall brutish fellows fanning out to make sure Freja and who attends to her is given the space they require.

Dawn's hand settles on Mason's forearm when Freja goes down. A small half-step forward is also taken but, given the quick response by Freja's guardians-- and the bristling wall of swords that now face the guests-- Grayson's Voice stills that reflex. Her eyes narrow, sharp contemplation or simply trying to squint past the line of men-at-arms to see what occurs with the shaman.

Having been watching Dagon who had stepped forward earlier and those who had stood when Freja drank the concoction she had made, Fergus' attention wasn't there at the critical moment when Freja dropped. Despite this, the transition between Darren to Fergus is smooth, as if the two had been waiting or ready for something to happen. Fergus's strong arms hold his sister's long frame draped in his grasp and as if abruptly, Fergus turns toward the direction of the Redrain Villa, moving swiftly to get Freja to a bed.

Silas startles like everyone else when the shaman suddenly collapses, but the responses of her guards and kinsmen suggest the ritual is not yet over. He simply stares.

Isolde watches Freja, without concern, without surprise, without... anything, really. Her fingers flex and she simply watches things unfold, a void of expression, though her eyes are intense.

The Shaman's lips move incoherently and forming words that never reach the ears around her, even that of her brother who carries her now. Her eyes part partially beneath thick lashes. To those far away or close it may look like a mercurial, milkly haze has glazed over her typically somber brown sight, but to others it may simply look like they have rolled back in her head. Either way, she is not cognizant of this world and lingers in the one fabricated by the ritual, whatever that may be. Her movements rely entirely on Fergus now.

Kieran remains sitting with his back to the old stone as Freja collapses and his brother and Fergus move to catch her. Turning his attention away, Kieran reaches over to pick a flower from one of the vines, sniffing at the light scent as things continue.

Mason seemed even moved to assist, but Dawn's hand on his arm keeps him in his place. Not quite understanding, he writes one more note in his language before setting the things away, but not out of reach. There's a look at Dawn, as if asking her if that was supposed to happen. He has no idea, all these things are new to him. But as if a need to assure the Grayson Voice that she's not alone, he sets his hand to her upper back, just incase she needs to be steadied.

milky

Sylphie rises as Fergus carries Freja off, perhaps thinking the ceremony is over, but she does not move yet from the benches and her liege-lady.


Darren will murmur something to Fergus under his breath as he makes the exchange of Freja's body, his hands wiping down the hips of his leathers once Freja's in Fergus' capable hands. Then, he'll nod to Marcas, a silent gesture of thanks, as he walks out around the grumpy looking men that are keeping guard. "It's a safety thing," he clears his throat, addressing those who are gathered, with a thumb pointed back to Marcas' men so there's no cause for concern. "That's the end of it all. If you have questions? Freja will probably be able to take messengers in another day or so," he shrugs, and then starts off towards the back of the grove, having said what he needs to say.

Marcas and his men still do not draw weapons. There is a gesture from Marcas that has a group of men breaking off to follow after Fergus and provide assistance where needed. Easier to have someone else to open a door when you have an armload of Princess in your arms, afterall. Scratching under his chin, Marcas looks out amongst the crowd and glances back to Darren briefly, then out to Fergus carrying Freja off. Regardless, they keep a sort of guard over the altar and the horn and Freja's white bear cloak. Not touching anything, just making sure no one else does.

Showing no outward signs of worry, other than the fact Fergus is walking with haste, carrying her light form. THe Prince is soon out of the grove with the muttering Princess in his arms. Darren's murmur prior to him leaving is caught and a grunt is given in response.

Dawn's eyes keep their narrow set but now her expression shades more towards the thoughtful as she watches Fergus' departure with Freja in his arms. Darren's announcement wins her attention back and the High Lord receives a nod, that dip of her head followed by a half-turn to look up at Mason. "I'll be returning to the estate but if you'd like to stay, to ask questions of those who remain, please do. Your grace, My lord, my lady." Those last words are for the Lyceans who's claim remains to the bench, and they also earn a nod, before she venture towards that waiting pack of Grayson guardsmen, who will see her home.