Darkbourne Hold (RP by invitation)

Ever-so-subtly, the general's face seemed to fall. The wicked bird at his shoulder cried out again, shrill, piercing the silence that settled over the dinner table. Swain held his forehead in his left hand. His right abandoned the rim of his glass, its fingers now drumming the table in quick staccato. His gaze fell to the table. For once, the crimson orbs of his eyes were not burning with fervor, but ghostly, lost in thought.

"I see," Swain said finally. "And what of your Demacian? What is his name?" He resumed his original pose, fingers interlaced beneath his chin, returning his gaze to the scar-marked visage of his guest. Their meeting had been largely fruitless--but not entirely. Any information that could prove relevant to the general's interests would not go un-addressed.

Swain quirked a brow but remained composed, eyes never leaving his guests'--never blinking. "DuCouteau's disappearance was very unfortunate. He was a talented general, well-respected. Noxus was sorry to have lost him." The general's expression was unreadable as he added, "It is evidenced that his removal was instrumented by the League itself."

"Now," his voice became a low growl, "You seem to have provided me with all the pertinent information with which you are willing to part. You may go." His interest in the name evaporated. Though his face was impassive, cold fury seemed to linger in the air around the Grand General. Though he did not lift a finger, the Raedsel understood their cues, snapping from attention like statues coming to life. In an instant they were at Tekun's side, had pulled out his chair and were waiting, menacingly, for him to rise.

As though she had anticipated this turn of events, the servantwoman immediately hurried through the dining hall doors bearing a triangular bundle. She placed it on the table before Tekun with a swift curtsy and hurried away.

Swain did not move, his face a perfect mask of poise despite his guest's insolence. He replied, "Unfortunate for all of us, as Relivash's treachery has diluted Valoran's once-unwavering trust in the Institute."

As his guest stood, Swain's eyes flicked upwards, following the scar-marked face, the icy eyes. "Indeed," he said coldly. "Enjoy your pastry."

Swain remained still in his seat. His eyes blazed after the departing soldier. The joke hung awkwardly in the air, not met with any discernible response.

Four Raedsel followed in Tekun's wake, down the twisting stairs and into a dusty room on the first floor, where the Immortal Soldier's belongings had been locked in several ironbound chests. One guardsman bore a key; he silently opened each chest and stood up, bidding Tekun re-equip his personal armory before being escorted from the premises.

Swain frowned, folded his hands under his chin. His glowing red eyes remained fixed on the now vacant doorway. "No," he growled. "Not yet. There are other, more pressing matters at hand." He cleared his throat; a maidservant hurried into the dining hall, drew out the chair nearest Swain with a low bow. "I hope you've an appetite," said the general, indicating for his guest to sit. There still lay a veritable feast upon the table; the Grand General's own plate still gleamed empty, his glass of scotch untouched.

The maidservant kept her head bowed, her eyes on the floor, as she addressed LeBlanc. "Anything to drink, milady?"

The maid bowed deeply and hurried from the room, leaving the two mages alone in the dim firelight.

"Noxus' fortifications progress according to plan," Swain began, but he interrupted himself with a series of hacking coughs, a labored wheeze, a rattling gasp for breath. He shut his eyes, knit his brows, turned from the matron as he cleared his throat.

His collected demeanor returned as soon as the fit subsided. "Pardon," he resumed simply. "We're on schedule. But I've a vested interest in another addition to our... collection." The general ran a gnarled finger around the rim of his empty plate as he spoke, his blazing eyes wandering the room--perhaps purposely avoiding the Deceiver's gaze. "The hemomancer. I'm wary of his vantage point. Too long has he watched from the outskirts of Noxus, close enough to observe but not close enough to be controlled."

He paused as the maid re-entered, her head bowed low, bearing a wineglass and aged bottle. She set the glass upon the table, uncorked the wine before the matron, as was proper, and poured a generous serving of the crimson liquid.

"I don't like things I don't control."

At her embrace, he laid a gnarled hand briefly over her dainty one, a small gesture of appreciation for her display. When she stood, he frowned, expelled a heavy sigh. "Right."

He pushed his chair back from the table, angled it facing LeBlanc so that he could take in her full form, her sweeping cape, the sparkling glass of wine in her hand. "How is it?" he asked, folding his hands over his chest. "The wine."