Darkbourne Hold (RP by invitation)

Hunched over the sprawling map of Valoran, a towering stack of parchment by his side, Swain snapped back to alertness. He wondered briefly how long he had been staring at the single red marker over Demacia, half awake, half asleep, before he responded aloud, "Of course."

He ground his knuckles into his eyes, willing himself from his reverie, and pushed his chair back from the desk.

A woman and a black dress would emerge seemingly from nowhere, head bowed and a dossier clucthed in her left hand. She seems rather suprised by the Grand General of Noxus standing before them. She opens her mouth to speak before stopping herself and looking to LeBlanc,
"Yes Matron?"

Amarills doesn't respond with words, but simply smiles at the general. A misty pink fire ignites on her now outstretched hand, she begins studying Swain, taking in every detail. Without warning the fire spreads rapidly up her arm webbing out across her chest and spreading to the rest fo her body. When it clears, Swain would find himself looking at an almost perfect replica of himself. One major difference, her replica did not have Beatrice. There were small subtle differences that one may notice if they knew what they were looking for, after all, she was not as powerful as her matron.

The replica Swain stands in the same stance as the real Swain, his eyes staring back into Swains own. Her voice an almost perfect replica of Swain's own.
"You expected a display?"

She knew many other tricks and illusions... She could continue if he said the word.

Amarills turns to LeBlanc, her face knits into a brooding scowl, she limps towards LeBlanc using the cane as Swain would to support himself. Amarills considers attempting to project an image of the raven... But decides against it. She stands infront of the matron, both hands resting upon her cane as she looks upon LeBlanc.
"Her imitation is imperfect, minor flaws. You think she will be able to what I require?"

Knowing full well LeBlanc wouldn't hesitate to kill her if she fail she seems to ignore the blade, her brow knits together as she glares at Leblanc, her voice comes across powerful and comanding,
"Lower the blade."

Her eyes seem to flash dark crimson as they bore into LeBlanc's, both hands resting upon the cane as she stands her ground.

His gaze, cold and calculating, spoke neither of approval nor disappointment, but he nodded. "Yes. For the time being." A single candle burned low in its brass upon the desk. Swain motioned to a pair of wing-backed chairs positioned around the darkened hearth. "Sit," he commanded. "Your timing is impeccable, matron. We should not need to wait much longer." For what, he did not elaborate, merely tucked one arm behind him, straightening his back, adopting a dignified pose.

Zorn Agammond blinked a few times, looking from the faux Swain to the real one, then to Madame LeBlanc. He drew his fist over his chest in a hesitant salute, seeming to detect the air of foreboding in the room. "Grand General," he chose to address the general's true form, purely out of luck. He was a powerfully built man, tall--but with the look of one gone slightly to seed, comfortable in his High Command chair, complacent. "General Darius informed me of your summons, sir," he stated, shifting his weight uneasily.

"Obviously," said Swain.

Signs of nervousness played at Agammond's face. His eyes darted back and forth between each of the room's occupants. Sweat beaded on his wrinkled brow. "General? Forgive my impertinence. Wh-what is this?"

Swain maintained his regal pose, one fist behind his back, the other gripping his cane, chin held high. The only answer he provided to Agammond's question was a glance to Darius, the slight jerk of his head towards the table in the center of the room. The Hand would know to subdue his charge, but not to kill. Not just yet.