Nyrielle hadn't moved since taking a seat on the icy throne next to Lord Ritchel. To the assembled Frost Walkers, it felt like a goddess of death sat among them, waiting for someone to make a wrong move to give her an excuse to fall upon them and reap their lives. Drinks and half-finished meals sat forgotten and the councilors kept their movements to a minimum lest they break the delicate silence that had descended on the great hall like a fresh blanket of snow.
They didn't have to wait long, however, before they began to hear the steady beat of a pair of drums. The drumbeats were low, slow, and punctuated at regular intervals by a sharp slap on the body of the drum.
Odette tightened her grip on the arms of her chair as she recognized the sound of a funeral march. Silently, she counted the beats, four heavy -THUMP-s followed by a sharp -CRACK- and then the drum beats resumed. Five people, one death.
