However, despite her bravado, Syn couldn’t help but worry that if she was disowned by house Mistrivvin, would the moonblade turn on her… or fall dormant. It was forged to serve the scion of her house and many, like the Ealoeth’s own, had gone silent over the long years since their creation. Centuries ago, they were used to determine which noble house would take the throne of Evermeet and rule over all elf-kind without resorting to bloodshed. But that task was fulfilled long, long ago. Now they were little more than cherished heirlooms; symbols of a house’s honor and nobility. But few remained active… and fewer still ever saw actual combat. Seeing that there was no point in trying to avenge the slight to his honor the pompous elf lord had made, as the concept was totally foreign to him, Torryn stepped to Syn’s side and addressed her with a heavy sigh; “Even if you gut this peacock as he deserves it won’t end here… it would only ignite a blood feud… and your house could pay the price. You’re better off to send him home with his tail feathers between his legs with a warning that you won’t be so merciful in the future.” “Ours isn’t the only active moonblade left,” Syn snarled to Haryk. “If house Ealoeth is so desperate to put on the façade that you skill have honor, find someone else’s to buy. This one will only be bought with blood… either mine or yours!” “You’ve condemned your house to ruin and poverty. We’ll see to that!” the arrogant elf lord hissed venomously as his raven familiar returned to perch on his shoulder, and his warrior maidens moved to his side, even as he scolded them; “I should leave you in this wretched forest you worthless oafs!” “Wait!” Syn commanded harshly, knowing that Haryk was about to invoke some form of magical transportation to return to Everlund. “I’ll not have you continue to spy on me. Leave the crystal ball, and never scry on me… or Nykademous… again!” Knowing that he could always acquire another one if he truly wanted to, and that there was little point, beyond the entertainment value, in scrying on her now… especially since she was likely to take measures to prevent such intrusions in the future… he laid the clear sphere on the ground and rolled it toward her; it was a small, worthless victory. Then, holding up his hand, he spoke a single word in Aragrakh, the dead language of dragons, which activated the transportation spell stored in his magical ring, whisking them back to his chambers in house Ealoeth’s lavish mansion in Everlund. “I’ll return shortly,” he announced curtly, instructing as he stormed off to inform the elders of their failure. “Be ready to serve me in what is apparently the only way you’re proficient.” “This isn’t likely to put an end to it,” Torryn offered as Syn retrieved the magical scrying device from the ground at her feet. He knew all too well how stubbornly elves could cling to perceived insults. “I know,” she bemoaned, but then smirked at him wickedly; “At least I’ve robbed him of his ‘entertainment’ for a while… although I’m going to have to find a way to mask Nykademous as I have myself… or accept the fact that I’ll be house Ealoeth’s voyeurs’ delight... not that I truly mind.”