Open Chronicles The Return Of The Queen

Vyx'aria said:

“Her Highness requests that her courtesans appear cheerful while she holds court,” the woman said lightly. “Rather than brooding.” She nudged the bottle closer. “This is to steady your nerves.”

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"My... Nerves?"

He glanced past the dancer to see Vyx’aria smirking.

Azrakar took a slow, deep breath. He wondered how the party would take a fiend striding across the floor beneath a crown of flame.

He fixed a thin smiles onto his lips and took the offered bottle of wine. He met Vyx’aria's gaze and inclined his head slightly.

Well played, his gaze said.

He didn't have to like it, but he had to respect the maneuver.

"I haven't had the pleasure," he lied. He reached out - bold for a male - and let one finger trail down a strand of hair. "Why do you think she picked me out?"

The brief glimmer of excited madness faded from Xeraphine. The queen offered her terms. Trade. New rights of import from the Underrealm, which House Yldore might see to securing.

She should be glad. It was a genuine opportunity to rebuild her house, slowly but surely increasing its standing by being the first to open trade agreements with Zar'ahal.

But instead, disappointment bloomed in her chest. She couldn't hide the brief downturn of her lips.

She could only have imagined the sheer panic of the merchant council if an army of drow came knocking on their door. Oh, how delightfully precarious it would have been for them. And it would have turned their attention away from her own affairs just long enough . . .

The despondent spell faded quickly though, as the more rational part of her caught up to weigh this offer. Yes, it would be better. A slow, opening channel between their cities. This was the way it was done. Build slowly and steadily, do not rush.

Besides, the drow had only managed smaller raids of specialised forces to the surface before. Even managing an army above ground was difficult, exhausting all resources. Nothing drained coffers or stores of grain quite like the march of thousands of hungry and thirsty soldiers.

So how would one even begin to transport an army from the Underrealm to the surface? It seemed near impossible.

A slow drip of trade was the more prudent way, then. And being the first to handle and import Underrealm resources could turn out very valuable indeed . . .

After her reflection, her faint smile returned. Truly, it was a comfort the queen could also be -- measured, in her approach. Xeraphine bowed.

"You honour our House by such a gesture, Your Highness. We would gladly accept such terms." Her hand extended gracefully at the stiletto being toyed with in Vyx'aria's grasp. "Let this blade be a token, then, of a new dawn of mutual exchange between our great cities. Like our gift, you will be able to employ it at your own leisure. It seems apt that we named this particular piece of steel Counterpoint. It will surely assist you in making others, mm, understand your position, shall we say. Its blade cools in the presence of the demonic. Its pommel heats before magic. And it tends to cut through both such elements rather effectively." Her courteous smile gained an enigmatic quality in the twilight glow of the plaza, shadows shifting about her face. "Perhaps you will learn even more properties from its Celestine iron . . . at times, it can even surprise us."

With that, Xeraphine prepared to step back, assuming the queen accepted. She had said her piece. And even she wouldn't like to keep an empress waiting.

Vyx'aria
Medja

Zathria took the drink, watching the way the servant attended more closely to Sazalam. It was a new thing for Sazalam, surely, and she knew that he would probably not know exactly how to process it.

It's only "mistress" in the bedroom, she said, making a serious effort to keep a straight face as she said it after he nearly called her mistress again. She'd be lying if she said she didn't kind of enjoy him calling her that, just a bit of excitement, but that was neither here nor there.

She took a more serious tone a moment later when he talked about how his life would change.

Look at it as a new opportunity, she said. That sounded kind of hollow didn't it?

Take what you've been trained to do, rely on those you can trust for advice, and do what you have to. I've spent much of my life not knowing how to handle the next step. That's one of life's dirty secrets: a lot of us don't know all the answers, we just do our best, she said.

Wow, listen to me waxing all philosophical on you, she said, shaking her head and taking a large drink of wine.

Sazalam

Tyrnael returned to the Myrlochar section, taking a bottle of wine from a passing servant. She embraced her brother Ferzil firmly, whispering her thanks for his timely intervention earlier. Then she sat beside her youngest sister Nemriel, put her arms around her, and held her close. Ferzil astutely moved to shield his sisters from view, pretending to confer with them about some manner, then waving a servant over to take a couple bowls of refreshments for them.

Vel'duith said:

"I think there are perhaps more surfacers in this plaza than I met in all the Spine, E'spdon! I do not recall such diverse contingents from either prior coronation I've witnessed. Well, unless they were struggling atop the altar..." , she added with a bit of a frown. "More wine?"

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A wordless nod of acknowledgement issued, though his mind was somewhere else. Cautiously watching the queen's proceedings. How she toyed with courtesan and gifted blade alike, while easily negotiating with humans as if it was nothing but a trifling matter.

It worried him. Nothing overt; simply the speech of her body in ruling. Blasé. The very picture of coiled self-indulgence and natural domination. As might be expected from a drow queen; yet his memory lingered with her past words, her promises of change. The fierce and cold certainty in her snowy brow, still covered by her dark hood like a skulking fugitive, standing across from him by his table, bristling with daggers and blades for claws.

That exile near seemed a different soul. A phantom of memory. It was strange how a crown could so alter the perception of a person. Or, indeed, that very person's character.

It was one thing to grant promises in the abyss of lonely exile. Another to fulfill them, once crown and throne had all been seized.

Vel'duith was right. Humans, or any surfacers, had hardly set foot here before without being forced upon an altar; or in a cage. That already proved to be one point of alteration.

He accepted a refill from the draught of wine and followed.

Vel'duith said:

She pulled out the distinctly darthiiri-looking tome and set it on a low table, speaking a command to light the reading gems. She then turned, casting a simple ward, before fetching out another tome, heavier, wrapped in a containing sleeve of lead powder-filled spidersilk with ward-runes softly glowing.

"You support the Valsharess, E'spdon, and I suspect that you were my...." Another half-choked pause in speaking, and another subsequent substitution. "...pardon, my House's client for my very last acquisition. For who else would dare request a book known to be held by the Regent herself with half the Temple of Maelzafan ever coming and going, if not its previous owner? And if not: I suppose I am returning it to you unexpectedly and free of charge, with profound apologies for any inconvenience caused by its protracted absence. Incidentally - the ssussura plant in the foyer, and the decor leading the eyes upward away from whatever you've concealed in the floors? My sincerest compliments!"

She smiled broadly, then gestured back toward the table with the Sse'elah tome and gently waggled the bottle of wine.

"Now, E'spdon, with that business attended to: please allow me to fetch you a chair and a glass, and let us look at what the darthiiri of ten thousand years ago wrought for our purported redemption."

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Walking into the compound, guarded caution subtly entered the archmage's gait; causing him to linger a moment longer than needed at thresholds, to arch his neck back and keep his distance to walls, as if they might spew fire upon him. Even if that was possible, it more probably stemmed from vigilance arising from stepping into the territory of another house. Now the most prominent house of them all.

He recognised the tome instantly. This was what he had been looking for. That lurking suspicion had been confirmed, and a moment of great gratification and elation at its discovery mixed instantaneously with grievance and a sense of betrayal. Like hot merry coals blazing alit, only to be doused by a bucket of water.

Still, some cinders of joy lingered. They mitigated the coolness of his gaze, the stiff upper lip; all while his hands caressed and cradled the tome like a lost infant in a swaddle, turning it this way and that, inspecting whatever damage its cover might have suffered.

Nimruil glanced up at Vel'duith. Torn between vindication and gratitude. Regardless, admitting either would be unseemly; if not downright dangerous. Especially here.

"Much obliged," he said quietly, a certain tightness to his tone, a dangerous gleam reviving his pale-red eyes. It was unclear whether he meant the promised chair and wine, or the tome in his hand. Perhaps both. "Long has this most singular work eluded my eye. It is . . . gratifying, to see it again."

Another consideration burrowed its way to his disturbed mind. How much had she read of this? How much as had she understood of its arcane lore?

Vel'duith

Vel’duith returned with a chair and a pair of glasses, setting them precisely in relation to the chairs, double checking and adjusting one through wine-hazed eyes. While pouring some wine in the glasses, she noticed how intently Nimruil was fixated upon the tome she had just returned to him.

“I suppose that I need not warn so powerful a wizard as you of the peril within those pages, E’spdon! After the brief wrestling of wills that I described, I discovered that I could read Pandemonic writings of all manner effortlessly. And I recognize their sigils now, hidden amid all our civil sculptures, hanging banners, commemorative frescoes, and many other assorted carvings all about the city. I have suspicions - perhaps mere fancy, to be certain! - that these sigils may even aid the Temple of Maelzafan in controlling Zar’Ahal. Perhaps even through our very reveries!”

She walked to her chair and sat down with a bit of a drunken plop before continuing.

“E’spdon, a very curious thing happened when I left to seek the surface. After I had traveled a couple days’ distance from the city, old memories began to return to me whenever I took reverie. And every reverie after, until I returned a week ago, when the peaceful void to which we are accustomed in reverie returned. Is that not an odd coincidence, E’spdon?”

She took a sip of wine, opening the Seelite tome and gently spreading it out upon the table. It was the first time she had opened it since leaving Quarry Hill. The corner illumination showed a benevolently smiling drow woman with one arm pointing towards the moons in a starry sky, the other taking the hand of another drow woman standing amid absolute darkness. The hues shimmered as though lit from within the pigment itself. The Elvish script flowed in elegant letters gilt in faintly glowing silvery outlining. She stared at it anew, the shimmer reflected in her wondering eyes, a snowy eyebrow arching.

Nimruil

Dante stood in the bustling exuberance of Low Town. His eyes were blurry, and to make matters worse his vision swam. He didn’t remember taking anything he couldn’t recognize, but then again… it wasn’t like he could really see down here. Even with the city's extensive illumination it was still as dark as any other city at night. Wait… his nose was burning… Oh, yeah, he’d totally just taken some Dragon Spice.

Whew, I thought I was losing it there for a second.

Actually, now that he thought about it… he’d been right in the middle of a con, right? Suddenly, the world around him rippled. He blinked, one eye closing before the other— and his mouth went slack jawed. He licked his lips as a wave of nausea and euphoria crashed into him. Pushing him. Urging him.

Dante was walking, he didn’t have the slightest clue where he was walking too, but— yup, his legs were moving— “Aw, c’mon guys, tell me where we’re goin, I can help.”

His legs didn’t talk back.

As they carried him through the labyrinthine streets of wherever the hell he was, his mind drifted to Vyx’aria… her silhouette wrapped in flame as her hands moved with deft precision, his cloak cut away as if she were a master seamstress and her tool was blade…. Dante took a slightly wider step and adjusted his pants, they’d gotten tighter in his groin, damn things… shrinking at a time like this, just rude, honestly.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, “That’s far enough human,” Dante’s eyes snapped up.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” he shouted, way too defensively. To the Drow’s credit, he didn’t respond, he just stared at Dante which made the sell sword’s paranoia catapult through the ceiling and back up to the world above.

“My presence was requested by the Queen,” he heard himself say. Of course she probably hadn’t thought about him since their infiltration of this damn city, but this dumb guard didn’t know that. Maybe. Okay, he probably wasn’t— Oh, he’s not looking at me.

Dante slipped by and was immediately lost in the crowd gathered in the plaza. If there was one thing you could say about the street rat turned sell sword, say he knew how to get lost… wait, no that wasn’t right… ugh, thinking is like wading through mud— wow, that light is really red— GASP, it’s her.

In the press of bodies around him he saw her. His heart was beating so fast he couldn’t feel it in his chest— that was probably fine— he had to get to her, he had to let her know how he felt, how he really felt— deep DEEEEEEEEEP in the back of his mind a voice was ugly crying while trying to get him to stop… Dante stepped into the center of the plaza— Suddenly the press of bodies was gone… he was surrounded by nothing but empty space and the world around him seemed to disappear. All he could see was the singular object of his desire.

Vyx’aria.

“My Queen, how doth one’s beauty reach such heights, you stand atop the zenith of perfection,” he started. Of course, he had no idea how an amphitheater worked and as he spoke his words reverberated off the walls so that all around could hear.

“Though you’ve spurred my love with that accursed Sun Spider, I curse my own heart, for it’s affection is for you and you alone!”

Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind, his body fought, but it did so without help from his mind, a voice as low and menacing as a glacier crashing into open water said, “Be silent human, and you will not die here today,” but Dante didn’t care about dieing, he cared about his Queen.

“Then slay me where I stand and let me die knowing my love was heard!” he screamed.
“What?” said quite voice.
Dante repeated what he said, but at a level that made sense for someone right next to him.
“I heard you, fool.”

Dante’s world tilted on it’s axis and his face hit the ground, “Even now on death’s door I proclaim it, you are my queen, and my love for you is eternal,” the ruffian handling him put a knee in his back, Dante could barely breath and yet he couldn’t stop, “Could the Sun Spider withstand this?! No! Not with his gilded spine of precious metal! You could step on me as much as you want, I would be your honored doorstep if it meant being in your presence and feeling your touch!”

“At this point, arresting you is a mercy, human,” there was a fluttering of motion just beyond Dante’s sight, suddenly he was yanked up, his hands restrained behind his back, his legs… Well to be totally honest at this point, he forgot he had legs, “Worry not my queen, my muse, my love, they may throw me into the darkest dungeon, but I will return! I will come back for you!”

Vyx'aria

“I will come back for you!” Fain’s smile spread, it wasn’t often these kinds of events were ruined by a profession of love, but he wouldn’t be mad if it happened more often. Uthral warriors drug the spice head human out of the center of the plaza, Fain bowed reverently to the queen, “The interruption has been handled Valsharess—”

Then suddenly a voice sharp as a cold wind swept aside his words. Fain turned and frowned, “Valsharess,” said Matron Uldrezia Uthal…. His mother.

Sol’aufain suddenly had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as his mother’s words came drifting back to him… “Everything I do, I do for the house, remember that…”

The only perceptible shift in his expression was the clenching on his jaw as he watched his mother. Flanked by two priestess, Uldrezia came to a stop in the center of the plaza, next to him, and with a bowed head said, “If I may steal but a moment of your time, I Matron Mother Uldrezia Uthal, your humble servant, wish to bestow a gift in celebration of your coronation,” her hand gestured to Fain. His blood froze. “My son, Sol’aufain Uthral, Warmaster of my very house, I give to you, may his service bring honor and glory to your reign," her hand landed on Fain’s shoulder.

Fain could feel his heart beating in his ears. Like the bow of a violin scratching out a sharp discordant whistle across it’s strings, over and over, and over, despite the turmoil roiling underneath, his expression remained unchanged and his gaze locked on the Valsahress. His entire life hung by a spider’s thread, and it felt like Mealzafan pulled the strings.

Vyx'aria

The Empress smirked at Xeraphine as the Allirian woman stepped back. Reasons and manipulations there may have been, but the noblewoman had just signed up for a contract that would serve to benefit her and her own very little, and the new queen of the drow very much.

Medja floated forward and offered Vyx'aria her hand. She had curtsied once already, and this would be enough. Both women were dignified leaders, living icons of power; Medja would not have expected the queen to kneel before her unless conquered, and Medja was far from conquered.

Before she could speak, however, she found that it was her being interrupted this time...by a very bold suitor, it seemed. Or, perhaps just a very drunk and delusional young man with a deathwish.

"...Let no one say that the Valsharess is stingy or unimaginative with the entertainment," Medja spoke after a moment, a playful lilt in her tone, and a series of laughs rolled in from the gallery of gathered representatives. Not one to be thrown off by such a petty distraction, the sorceress brushed a hand through her hair, and offered her hand once again.

"As I said before, your Grace...I am Empress Medja of Amol-Kalit. I thank you for your hospitality," she intoned graciously. "Should it please you, I would commemorate this occasion, and speak briefly upon the shared futures of our two nations."

Sazalam took a shallow drink and smiled.
There was a reassurance in Zathria allowing him to call her his mistress, even if it was in private. She resisted the title when they first met and now when he had no such obligation she asked him to use it.
Fate was a funny thing.

"As you wish, Zathria."
His reply came, coy and pleasing. It was a relief to know his life was not COMPLETELY turned around. He cemented the promise with a gentle nudge of her arm with his elbow.

"As you should, philosophy should come from many places. Paupers and Queens, Soldiers and Slaves all have seen and all have learned realities the other cannot touch."
He bit his tongue and pulled a face.
"Now you have me going on."

Another sip and the crowd cheered and danced and sang, the ceaseless energy of celebration undaunted by time or fatigue. The hearts of the people as if spurned by the dark itself were in wondrous motion.

"So allow me to ask then, what shall be done now? What task beckons after victory?"
Gesturing about on this day a stray streamer of coloured ribbon caught his arm and it drew his attention upward. Children on the rooftops were casting dyed threads and coloured strips of fabric onto the merry makers below. One girlchild wore a crown of painted wood and seemed to be making proclamations to the city. Their own little coronation hidden in their own secret world above the streets. Mimicry in motion. Life in echo of life with all the grandeur of imagination and he pointed Zathria toward the display.

"Long live the queen!"
He jested and raised his cup to the girlchild. A silent and unnoticed player in the game.

Zathria At'Arel

Vel'duith said:

Vel’duith returned with a chair and a pair of glasses, setting them precisely in relation to the chairs, double checking and adjusting one through wine-hazed eyes. While pouring some wine in the glasses, she noticed how intently Nimruil was fixated upon the tome she had just returned to him.

“I suppose that I need not warn so powerful a wizard as you of the peril within those pages, E’spdon! After the brief wrestling of wills that I described, I discovered that I could read Pandemonic writings of all manner effortlessly. And I recognize their sigils now, hidden amid all our civil sculptures, hanging banners, commemorative frescoes, and many other assorted carvings all about the city. I have suspicions - perhaps mere fancy, to be certain! - that these sigils may even aid the Temple of Maelzafan in controlling Zar’Ahal. Perhaps even through our very reveries!”

She walked to her chair and sat down with a bit of a drunken plop before continuing.

“E’spdon, a very curious thing happened when I left to seek the surface. After I had traveled a couple days’ distance from the city, old memories began to return to me whenever I took reverie. And every reverie after, until I returned a week ago, when the peaceful void to which we are accustomed in reverie returned. Is that not an odd coincidence, E’spdon?”

She took a sip of wine, opening the Seelite tome and gently spreading it out upon the table. It was the first time she had opened it since leaving Quarry Hill. The corner illumination showed a benevolently smiling drow woman with one arm pointing towards the moons in a starry sky, the other taking the hand of another drow woman standing amid absolute darkness. The hues shimmered as though lit from within the pigment itself. The Elvish script flowed in elegant letters gilt in faintly glowing silvery outlining. She stared at it anew, the shimmer reflected in her wondering eyes, a snowy eyebrow arching.

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Nimruil watched her carefully over the rim of his glass, eyes like twin crystals of red fluorite. Or indeed, like colour-leeched garnets. True, there were many such cryptic and hidden demonic messages to be found tattooed into the naked, stony skin of Zar'ahal. Like an ancient curse or oath. Perhaps both.

So, she shared an inkling of his suspicions, at least. Perhaps more.

Their void-like reverie could well have a connection to it. This had been adjacent to his studies, as they were, seeking to overcome the inherent weaknesses of the drow. But where his studies focused on withstanding the baleful glare of sunlight, the investigation of their hollowed-out reveries was of a more cryptic nature. It was naturally dangerous, as such studies always seemed to swirl around the priesthood -- and so, he had kept it an arm's length.

He raised a hand to stall her drunken excitement and repetition of his title.

"Please. Call me Nimruil."

His finger traced a line along the book, noting in particular a segment in Elvish:

"The reverie of elven kind is sacred, both in body and spirit. When we dance, we grant expression to the joyous revisitation of our treasured memories, stepping between pearls, amethysts, emeralds and sapphires of conversations, of revelry, of art and of sublime nature. We allow others to share in the deepest and most private spheres of our inner worlds."

He frowned. The words he had read out loud seemed a mismatch to his dark tones, yet a tiny bit of natural musicality came from spoken elvish, even from a drow, allowing the words to near spring, leap and dance from the page like the illustrated figure. His nose wrinkled.

"Archaic notions. I expect there to be much such meandering poetry. But this is old. The texture of the parchment tells one alone. Perhaps it could shed some light on our trance state between wakeful hours."

He sniffed the wine; an automatic precaution after five centuries of Zar'ahalian citizenship, and once satisfied, took a contemplative sip at that; not yet willing to admit that any beauty of the tome in either its iconography or 'meandering poetry' had touched his heart.

Vel'duith

Vel’duith nodded slowly at first, then more quickly, taking another sip of the wine.

“My, this is quite good. I must save the bottle so I can find more of its like… Anyway… deep in the throes of my foray into naivety, Nimruil, once my reveries abruptly began after I embarked on my journey, I had immediately misunderstood those verses to mean that Seelah was unlocking the memories for me personally, as some manner of instruction or similar reward for her veneration. But now, now I think she truly meant to show us what has been taken away from us by Maelzafan. The whole testament has a theme of being a map of sorts, showing the way back to our old ways. Perhaps such was still possible so many millennia ago… I sense powerful magic preserving this tome to come down to us through the ages. Study of that magic may prove as useful as of the knowledge that may be gleaned within its leaves…”

She turned to await his thoughts, looking quizzically in his eyes. Curious: most folk had less purple in the red. Why, they might once have resembled the very uncommon shade of her own before venerability began to steal away their luster… she shook it off, and returned her attention to the tome, carefully turning the page.

Nimruil

His glass hit the table with finality. Red eyes flared viciously.

"What Maelzafan has taken from us? That sounds like an awfully dangerous notion, Vel'duith Voiryn. Near heretical, even." His finger tapped on Seelie's page, like a reminder. "The queen may well have curbed the ambitions of the clergy, for now, but they remain a potent factor. I would advise caution when speaking of things that concern their domain. It is not only Maelzafan's voice that reaches far -- but Her hearing, as well."

Vel'duith

Vel’duith arced a snowy eyebrow, but didn’t flinch. Then she nodded in agreement, a slight smirk tugging the corner of her thin lips.

“In the unreliable words of the source, of course, which absolutely had their own bias, in their nefarious attempt to mislead a careless reader towards such heretical folly.”

Nimruil

Zathria swirled the wine in her cup as he spoke, listening to him talking about paupers and queens. Most of the world saw her and the warrior that she absolutely was, but beneath that was a woman who enjoyed a deep conversation with a friend, a home baked loaf of chocolate bread, and the simpler things in life.

It was good to be home.

I missed this, she said, downing the remainder of her glass and moving on to the next. She wasn't on duty today and if she wanted to get herself drunk and have a good time with everyone else: that was her right.

Pfft, I'm just a soldier. "What comes after victory" is a diplomat's question, Zathria said. It was an evasion of the question, but Zathria was happy being a soldier, agents, and messenger to a Queen she trusted. She was best as the right hand than the head.

Sazalam

Vyx'aria said:

Her ears visibly twitched with irritation, a rarity. But then it all dulled.

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Azrakar looked across the shoulder of the dancer. He caught just the slightest shift in the queen's expression.

Perhaps now was not the moment for their back and forth. Not when she had an endless stream of visiting dignitaries.

Vyx'aria said:

The dancer quirked a brow at the male’s touch, though she did not recoil. “Perhaps it is your boldness she desires,” she said with a grin. She traced a finger along his jaw, “Why have I never seen you before? I would remember you,” she said. He was, after all, tall and stood out for a male drow.

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"It's a large city," Azrakar said. It was hardly an explanation, but Drow were hardly known for being forthcoming with details.

He leaned closer and lowered his voice.

"Why don't you go back to her Highness. When there is a gap, why don't you whisper to her that I promise no brooding and that I will see her later."

It was careful that as an unaffiliated male that he phrased things as suggestions, even to a dancer. He might have been caught by Vyx'aria for his out of date knowledge of drow culture, but some things had not changed.

Vel'duith said:

“In the unreliable words of the source, of course, which absolutely had their own bias, in their nefarious attempt to mislead a careless reader towards such heretical folly.”

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Nimruil arched his brow in turn. Guarded silence draped him with an air of educational scrutiny; like a teacher who had just heard the correct answer from a flippant student, expressed with a heavy dose of irony.

"Quite," he finally said, grudgingly accepting the content, though disregarding its exaggerrated delivery. "Now with that in mind . . ."

He dared flip another page, resisting to glance furtively over his shoulder, as if they might be caught studying it. "You said you had a visitor come upon you after reading these pages?"

Vel'duith

Without her saying it Sazalam guessed at her meaning.
A soldier lived by their wits and a drunk soldier was a bad soldier. Zathria, he reasoned, was feeling safe enough to get drunk possibly for the first time since the Queens exile.

"Hmm, good things should be missed I think. It makes receiving them all the better."

An attempt to match Zathria's pace left him staining his chin and almost choking on the wine.

"I'll leave the heavy drinking to you."
He managed to say between stifled coughs, his hand over his mouth before recovering and soothing his throat with a much more appropriately sized sip.

"Besides, I don't want to be useless later. It wouldn't do for Queensguard to fail to stand at attention."
Smiling at his own joke he tried to not let exactly how looking forward to it he was be known. A Manlings desire is shown in restraint and commitment after all so he changed the subject replying to Zathria's statement about herself.

"You're more than a soldier. You're also a passionate, driven, loyal, beautiful woman with a keen mind and if I can be so bold as to say, you're a wonderful dance partner."
His smile widened with the enjoyment of the telling, of being free enough to say it open and in knowing it was all true.

Zathria At'Arel

Vel’duith smiled broadly and drank a deep draught. She continued in her saucily laconic flippancy as she told the tale, walking a wobbly half circle around the table.

“Oh, yes - the plump winged fairy-cat. She spoke using telepathy, communicating with aristocratic bluster and comical gesture that she had been sent to assist me at the irrefutable behest of King Andronicus of the Dawn Court, as a personal favor to Seelah, the deceitful patroness of this maliciously beguiling tome. So I suppose that my woefully misguided prayers were heard. I read elsewhere that this Dawn Court purportedly lies somewhere in Amol-Khalit. But anyway, this cat immediately starts beseeching me to fulfill all that my decidedly ill-considered prayers had promised, so she could be freed from her geas. I was amenable to her plight amidst the fog of my folly. She bade me seek out the Noct Yaegirs, the monster hunters I mentioned. In retrospect, the fairy cat’s suggestion was quite likely due to convenience, as the tunnel I took on my errant exodus joined a disused mine a short walk from the Yaegir’s headquarters, Croghear Keep. I saw her perhaps twice after that. The Yaegirs had found an ancient mummy with an artifact slowly leaking invisible but malicious tendrils of wild magic out that slowly warped whatever they touched. The cat got one whiff of that and ran off. Then I saw her again weeks later when I departed the surface, greatly relieved that I had finally abandoned my folly. So ended her adventure with me.”

She stopped her story pacing, drained her glass, and plopped down next to the chair she aimed for with a thud, followed by a bemused giggle.

“Quite good wine! But it seems I ought perhaps abstain from indulging in another glass.”

Nimruil

Nimruil noted the stagger with a leery, downward twitch of his mouth.

"It seems so." Then, leaning forward, he folded his hands before him, aiming to catch what fleeting attention might remain in her addled senses. "The fae can be notoriously fickle with their minions, I have heard. Has the new queen asked you to study any of this, then? Or perhaps this other tome, now part of my inventory again?"

Vel'duith