The Conclave {Unseelie x Xinavee}

[Xinavee]

The Conclave​

It was said that the Northern mountain moors were uninhabitable, but not because of the ice and snow, but because of the Lord that reigned there. Humans who ventured there, the criminal and desperate, were never seen again. The same could be said of large clans and broods that attempted to overtake the fabled lord, though the rare merchant could find an easy path once during the summer nights.

How funny it would have been to see the face of the secretary in charge of The Conclave invitations when the usually ignored invite was returned with an affirmation of attendance. Even among Montago’s own men it was thought that there had been a mistake, or that the preparations that had consumed the last three months would all be canceled in the end. Finally, it was agreed in the hushed whispers of gossip, that the Lord was descending to the South for a purpose. An heir, perhaps.

Over seventeen decades had passed since the last time the Sovereign Lord Mondragamere Kollǫrn Montago had breached the mountainous pass that separated his domain from the rest of the land. Frozen moors and ancient forests gave way to the single twisted road that lowered slowly down the precipice. Traveling south upon the decollate road, the towering cliffs on either side of the passage seemed to tremble in the wake of his company.

Glacial fissures fractured and then crumbled away in an avalanche of snow that barred the path behind them, but stopped short, just shy of the Lords path. He didn’t look back to the thunder on either side of him, merely marching them onward, through the frosted valley that separated his land to the rest of society as the ghost like mist rose in drifting wisps along the paved road.

He was savage among his fellow lords, a tyrant that was better left forgotten to the winter chill and relentless march of time. Only the oldest of the lords recalled his scar marked face, or the blood red fire spark of his eyes, but his name was known and used most often upon the coldest of nights when a raw arctic bite slices through even the deadest of bones and the curse is uttered, “Montago hunts tonight.”

And He Did. In the darkest corners of the hosting city, the innocent and pure twitched and shivered within their beds. Draga shifted his head, eyes closed, and arms open at his sides and hands splayed wide, as he learned the city in an intimate way, learning its scent, it’s vibrations and wave lengths, feeling the walls of the city call out for his touch on a molecular level. Those closest to his path would feel him, like a lover or a breath, dancing over their skin, to turn their curious heads towards the road and pull them a step closer, but there the pull stopped. He was not calling them, merely becoming acquainted with his surroundings.

The Conclave was hosted by the wealthiest of the Covens this year, a tight nit family with a vast estate in the central region and a hub for commerce. Curious onlookers helped to crowd the roads towards the entrance where it seemed there was no lack of expense and status pouring into the large gaping doors.