Alvir Anacleto was anything but a shy man, though he was on edge a lot recently, he was a very proud elf. He was flirtatious to a fault, and enjoyed the limelight of being the next in line for the head of their household. It made him much too bold and Ceannah thought it made his head grow to an enormous size. Still, she couldn't help but want him to succeed, just on a smaller scale than he himself hoped for. Alvir was not as dedicated as Gaius, not as skilled as Salathiah, not as smart as Rionach, or as pretty as Siofra. But none of them were as proud and loud as Alvir was. Not even Ceannah. Some people thought she was mute and jumped when she finally spoke near them. She saved her words for the worthy and kept her silence simply because not all things needed saying and some things were better left unsaid.

Polas was the reason for this particular speech. Her father insisted that Alvir make a speech about the arriving refugees because it'd make him look better than he already did. Which wasn't saying much as more people were standing around with knives ready to stab her brother in the back than a warm smile or money to actually help this particular venture. Allowing refugees here was of course and order from those currently ruling over Astarii. Terestai was full, Iasa was still recovering from some theft, and that left them here to deal with them. It was a very interesting move for Alvir to talk about allowing them to stay here.

( But that didn't mean she liked the idea. )

It was strange to have Fenrir here, and yet not here. He wasn't here really for them, but he was here for the challenge. She'd read rumors of his death during the breaking and in the troubled times afterwards. But to believe them, part of her had, he hadn't been seen in what felt like years, but the man was so unstoppable. Death never found him, he beat anything he set his mind to it. A good ally, but he wasn't an ally to anyone but what he fancied for the moment. Alvir was off training in his own private quarters with a man that they'd known since they were children. But that didn't keep Ceannah from worrying about it. They had servants everywhere that knew to alert her if something seemed amiss but who to trust.

She couldn't even trust Fenrir. She couldn't trust their servants or their family. She couldn't trust soldiers sworn to the Coat of Arms, or to Polas himself. It was a bad place to be. Not to mention her meeting with Lord Banning had been as boring as she'd feared it would be. While Banning was attractive for his age, and held many titles and his own Land that, should Alvir live, would keep her happy. There was always something missing from someone like him. Something that had been touched inside of her years ago which would never be happy with someone like Banning.

( That didn't mean that he was out of the picture. )

The lavish apartment that Ceannah was currently staying in was a step back into more traditional elven design. Ornamentally carves pieces of wood detailing not only fantastic beasts of old, and stories from greater times all were finished in high glosses and the most expensive of trim. Mostly golds, as the Anacleto favored such things. Silks of red and dark blue. Sometimes black to give the piece a shadow of it's own. Everything was perfectly placed and told a new story of wealth. There was nothing in the apartment which had dust on it. Not even inside the doorways had dust on them. Her servants were as invisible as she wanted them to be. Two were stationed just outside the main room in the hall, and another two were likely already in the kitchen and uncorking a bottle of wine which was older than she was.

Above the doors themselves were two crossed blades, the first of simple design, what Gaius had always favored, a straight blade with a straighter hilt. The blade itself was marked with the crest of the Anacleto. Something Gaius had kissed more than once before he'd fallen to Flaithriaoh. The second sword was of a finer craftsmanship, one Salathiah had made himself and used quite often, it was all flourish. Though Salathiah was good with it, better than any of her family, he was still much more showy than Gaius had been. The accents of gold and silver, the basket made of a tangle of roses with their thorns pointing outwards to catch an enemy by surprise should they cross blades at a close range like Salathiah had liked to do. They were there above the door to remind her of what failure meant. There would be no trophy upon her death, no blade to remember her by. No titles for her to leave behind if she fell so soon.

Both had fallen to Flaithriaoh. She would make sure that one day a blade found his heart and tore it from his chest, either personally or otherwise. The 'Champion' would fall for everything he and his had done to her.

( There was no shrine to Lorien, or even a token to say that Ceannah still believed. )

"Wild plains, these," one elf informed him. "Despite our best."

"Chaos reigns," another said. "Where there are not bandits, there are starving refugees, and either means ruin for a farm that is caught in the middle."

"I did not come here to kill bandits," Fenrir replied. "Or starving fools. Time will do for either."

His eyes searched the dead man in front of him. The fellow had grown drunk in the tavern, before the start of their duel. Bragging about how Fenrir had met his match. Bragging about the dual swords which he used, he said, better than Talmus ever could have. It was Talmus' name that had started a ruckus. Staring. Watching as the man's chest rose and fell. Dead in spirit but not yet in body. Talmus betrayed everything, and died with an arrow through his mind, through that cunning sharp wit of his. There were no songs springing from Talmus' lips as he died. Only a sick sort of wheezing gurgle that Fenrir alone had ears for. When it was done, Fenrir had declared it the most beautiful song that ever passed the fellow's lips.

"You are Talmus reborn, are you not?" Fenrir asked softly, mockingly. "Come, you drunken tit. Sing me a song of your deeds."

The death rattle emerged from the man's throat, and life faded from his eyes.

"A sad tune," Fenrir graded it accordingly. "But lacking in heft."

The elves around him stared as though he was mad. Let them. He was, and if they knew it, none of them would threaten to arrest him for killing a man in the street.

Carts.

They seemed not to notice the fellow slipping between carts as they rolled around the circular road. This high up, no one went too close to the edge, where they might fall and gaze upon the beauty of the Light as they expired before the holy temple of the Champion and the Lord of Illereon. Fenrir thought balancing on the edge was part of the challenge. This was how he moved for a time, in a crouch, his cloak trailing on the stone behind him, walking the edge as the merchants creaked by. One looked up to see him, and another to know him, but neither made a sound. That was well. Here he was almost as invisible as the cloak could make him, and their idle gazes were the only ones that took him in. If anyone had work to do, they did not gaze up. There were a startling number who had work to do. More than Fenrir might have guessed, though he should have known, with all the refugees pouring into Astarii from the death that came across the mountains.

( There was a pause, for that. )