Joseph
Anyanka Durkhan
Zahrada Dungeons, Astoria

Anyanka crossed her arms over her chest, her fingernails digging into the bulk of her sweater at the elbows. The walk across the castle grounds to the dungeons had been long, and since discretion was imperative, she wasn't exactly guided by the light of a lantern. The chill of Astorian nights after a long storm was unlike anything she'd experienced in Amoroth. The days were just as cold and harsh at the nights, but the way the garden city could be full of warmth and life and turn ruthless in the midnight hours was terrifying. The forests whispered tales of monsters who lived within them, and the wind carried the stories through the cities and hillsides that weren't flanked by those towering pines. 

She'd taken a pair of Dayveth's trousers for the journey, not wanting to dirty even one of her more plain gowns with the dirt of the dungeons and wet grounds. It felt weird, to be sneaking around her own home, but she wasn't going to sacrifice months of planning for the comfort of a lantern and a guard. 

When she arrived, she found the heavy double doors laid in the earth. Upon it's construction, she'd explicitly instructed the dungeons be built beneath the hills on the far western side of the territory. It was closest to the woods, so should anyone manage to escape, they'd find themselves the victims of the wolves within it. So far, none of those who had found themselves imprisoned had managed to find their freedom from the pit.

Careful fingers moved along the door, searching for a handle that she found after two runs over the wood. A heave moved the door enough to step down inside, and she turned to guide the door back down over her head so it wouldn't slam in the middle of the night under it's own weight. 

A guard met her at the bottom of the stairs, a torch raised high above him to catch her features. The Queen dusted her hands on her borrowed trousers, and gave him a small nod. It was one of Harmattan's crew, though his name she didn't actually know. She knew nothing about the spymasters network aside from their undying loyalty - to him, not to herself or the crown- and the names they were assigned. This one, if she remembered correctly, was named 'Crow' after his dark features and unfortunate sized nose. 

Crow lead her down the path, past empty cells on either side of them, illuminated by torches. The air was stiff down here, and she knew that was intentional. It kept the prisoners from being hot headed and the only breezes that came were when they passed a guard's station, as they each had a small outlet for ventilation. He lead her to the last cell, in the furthest part of the dungeons, well past any of the cells that actually held prisoners. She'd instructed those of minor offenses to be cleared out two weeks prior, and this last week they'd moved those waiting for further sentencing to a secondary location. 

She wanted no one in the dungeons for this.

Crow stopped before the door of the cell, a heavy iron door stood before her, with bolts littered over the frame to keep it secured. A flash of the woman's grey eyes had him pulling it open, and she stepped back to watch him yank out the five bolts that held the locks. When the door was opened, she was greeted with the stench of rotting hay and old blood. Crow didn't say anything, and Anyanka took the torch from the man. 

"You remember the agreed upon terms?" She asked, and his nod was the only answer that he remembered their conversation earlier this month. She was to be the only one in the room, and he wasn't to open the door without a specific phrase and set of knocks on the door. 

With the nod, she moved into the cell, and waited until she heard all five bolts return to their homes before lifting the torch high enough to see into the length of the room. 

Anyanka was surprised to find the woman was asleep, or at least so it seemed. Dark brunette hair that normally had a natural curl was flat, still wet from the bath she'd been given earlier. Her pale skin was almost translucent, from nearly a year spent in the earth with nothing but the occasional glow of a torch to illuminate it. She was thin, but not terrifyingly so. Anyanka had instructed her to be taken care of, in the most minimal way possible. Part of that had been self inflicted, and she'd only just started getting reports of the woman actually beginning to finish the meals she was delivered.

Amalthea Vincent, who had once been her sister, then enemy, and now prisoner; didn't hold an ounce of intimidation anymore. She hadn't asked for details on how the guards and network had gone about breaking the woman, she could guess well enough some of the tactics and it was almost enough to make her sympathize. 

Her shallow breathing could be seen only when she got close, but the woman coughed, and the sound brought with it the rattle of chains. She hadn't realized the chains that bound her to the bed she rested on until then, and Anyanka let her shoulders drop. Delivering the torch into it's holder on the wall, she moved quietly to the small stood that sat in the corner, taking her perch carefully as to not wake the woman. 

Nearly half an hour passed in silence, with Anyanka moving from the stool twice to get a closer look. The murderer was stripped down to a plain dressing gown, but through the thin fabric she could see the markings of the guards, intentionally placed not to be shown otherwise. The only indication of _anything_ afoul was a small bruise on her neck, and Anyanka had to admit it was impressive to see the horrors could be so easily hidden.

The torch finally flickered behind her, and she straightened from her place hovering over the woman. She wasn't foolish enough to turn her back to the woman, so she stepped back fully until she found herself standing beside the faint image of Marcus. 

"What took you so long?" She asked, her voice soft in the hollowed earth. 

His image flickered as the torch did, and he swallowed thickly. "Turns out I _really_ don't like being underground. I kept finding myself in crypts. Sorry for the delay." He admitted, and the usual amusement to his voice was gone. He nodded towards the sleeping woman, and his voice was a bit stronger this time. 

"She looks different." 

Anyanka nodded once, pressing her palms flat to the wall and then her hips back against it as she angled her legs out, stretching them a bit. "You would too." She mused, and inhaled deeply. "Are you ready to try this?" She asked, glancing over to him fully, and taking some comfort in the fact his eyes were still on Amalthea.

"As ready as we're going to get." He countered, and tilted his neck to the side. It cracked, but didn't echo through the cell like it would have if he was made of flesh and bone. 

Anyanka pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek, taking a moment to steady herself before she pushed herself off the wall. Her and Marcus both moved across the room, and Anyanka took her place at the bedside, Marcus at the foot. They'd never tried anything like this, but if the plan was to work it had to be done now. Vincentien would have installed a figurehead a few weeks after Amalthea's disappearance, the longest the courts would adhere to any sort of claim was two years, and that window was closing. 

Anyanka hesitated, not expecting the bile to rise in her throat as she reached for the woman's hand. To think, these fingers had wielded the blade that killed her son. She swallowed down the bile, and squeezed a bit more firmly than necessary as she felt the heat begin to build beneath the sleeves of her sweater. It quickly became uncomfortable, and her eyes closed tightly as she tried to summon the image of the grimoire in her mind. As the curl of old Feyshorian script filled itself out in her mind, she felt that familiar burn on her skin. The sigils made the loose knit of her sweater glow, a silver that matched the color that seemed to take over her eyes when she put herself in the position of starting a powerful spell.

The script rolled off her tongue and onto the flesh of the woman whose hand she was holding. Veins raised beneath the skin, and Amalthea's brow started to twitch with discomfort as magic started to push through her veins. It wouldn't give her strength, in fact, it was meant to cage her -or what was left of her- in her own mind. Anyanka felt the hollow in the woman's chest before the body began to go slack, and she looked to Marcus with cautious confirmation. He held her gaze for less than a second before taking her other hand. His image flickered, and started to fade. The sigils on the arm that held his hand ignited with fury at the secondary presence, and she let out a gasp as her knees buckled under her before she was able to regain her footing. The magic required for the transfer made the sigils boil, and as he moved from one arm through her and towards the other, they blistered and burst, some spilling boiling fluid down her wrists. 

Amalthea didn't fare any better, and the veins that had raised throbbed angrily as the spirit moved through her. Anya could _see_ the passage, up her arm, beneath the thin gown before disappearing deep within her chest. Amalthea's body convulsed, and Anyanka released her hand, not wanting to give the spirit an opportunity to retreat back into her. The chains rattled, and the bed thrashed beneath her, and Anyanka could only hope that was Marcus figuring out how to transition back into flesh and bone instead after so long away from the concept.

Anya stepped back fully, not wanting to be anywhere close to the woman incase things turned uglier than they already were. Her body was drenched with sweat, and the same blistered that made her own skin ache could be seen trailing along her forearm and up the side of her neck. It took a solid ten minutes before the chains settled, and the body on the bed finally came to a stop. Anyanka hadn't moved from her position against the wall the entire time, and her breath escaped her shakily as Amalthea's eyes opened.

Neither of them said anything, and Anyanka felt that familiar fear and loathing at the sight of her actually being awake. Asleep, she'd been easy to kill; awake left too many risks. The green eye'd woman stared at the ceiling for a long time before turning slowly to look over at Anyanka. Her eyes moved over her, squinting a bit at the darkness, before she finally spoke in a soft, hoarse tone: "I think it worked." 

That wasn't enough, but she did feel her shoulders relax. "Did it?" She asked, prompting him to confirm _exactly_ how he'd instructed him to do so one inside her body.

Amalthea closed her eyes, and rolled her fingers closed into a fist. The action caused her to whimper in pain, and her lips parted before she spoke once more. "I, Amalthea Vincent, am a cunt." The statement that followed sounded _almost_ like a laugh. "And I will return to my position in Vincentien as a puppet to _Queen_ Anyanka Durkhan, who has the best ass in this and the next life." 

It wasn't exact, but it was close enough, and she ran her tongue over her teeth, trying not to laugh at the success they'd been granted. She pushed herself from the wall, and moved to the door, knocking twice before giving the door a firm kick. 

"You bet I do." She countered, and the sound of moving locks in the iron filled the cell before she left.
Edward
Daemon Coridon
Zahrada, Astoria

A devilish smile came across Daemon's face when all of the men had a stunned, annoyed look at the boy he'd rolled all ones on a low roll. 

"By the gods..." Daemon whispered, a breathe of a laugh escaping him. 

"You probably just won..." He said, as all of the men took their turns begrudgingly. As each went, none surpassed Mik. "You get the pot." 

The looks on the men's face was pure displeasure, "Beginners luck, surely." Daemon said to the men, very pleased with seeing the men annoyed by Mik's luck. "Wanna go again?"
Joseph
Mikhail Durkhan-Maith
Zahrada, Astoria

The pot was pushed to him and he raised a brow. He was about to question it, then remembered Daemon had said they alternated between high and low rolls to keep from using loaded dice. 

Glancing at the small pile of coin before him he shrugged, and tossed two more into the pot before taking the dice once more. He threw again, this time rolling 23. A low groan of annoyance came from the man to his left, who took the dice and threw them with a bit of force, only to roll a 22. 

"There's no logic to this game, it's all luck?" Mikhail asked, and the last man threw his dice, rolling a 14. Mikhail had won again.
Edward
Daemon Coridon
Zahrada, Astoria

Daemon nodded, "Only luck, wow, I didn't realize you were so lucky." He said. Watching the next couple of pots leave. A few of the men got up and either went to another table, or to go get another drink. But one begrudginly stayed, throwing out more money and growing visibly more frustrated with each loss. Daemon shifted his eyes to the man, watching him carefully. 

"The luck part is supposed to be what's fun, never know when you're gonna win. Let me buy you a drink." The last bit was to the angry man.

"I don't need you to buy me shit, _boy_." The man growled. He was bald, big, and gross looking. Sort of like a human pig. 

"Just trying to be friendly." Daemon said calmly, his left hand rested on his right thigh.
Joseph
Mikhail Durkhan-Maith
Zahrada Astoria

He didn't see the fun in it, nor how he kept throwing winning hands. But he did, and even he was starting to get annoyed with every push. 

It had to be a magic thing. He recalled the man he had stood beside earlier also won both his pots before the Prince had joined. When the man who remained called Daemon a boy, Mikhail tapped his coin on the table before setting it down. 

"Alright, this is enough of this, why don't you go back to the other table, and we'll go finish our drinks." The Prince looked to Daemon and went to stand, shoving the pile of coin towards the end of the table to take it with him.