>>5421827You arrive at a semi-open area, within the royal castle-complex: a sort of courtyard. Its central monument is a kind of fountain, though the dark elves seem to lack the magic or technical expertise to funnel water to it, and so the water which fills it is brackish; were it not perfumed, as it is, it would be foul. The central monument is a well-made one, depicting a nude Drow couple, male and female, engaged in a dance back-to-back; each holds two blades, one pointed outward and one held behind their back, clashing and wrestling with that of the other, even as their backsides rest against one another’s, and their legs intertwine.
At the lip of the fountain-well sits Queen Myrymma. Her headdress sits in her lap, revealing an incredibly long and flowing cascade of silver-white hair, to match her eyes, flowing around her; she carefully sweeps it to one side to avoid dipping it in the water, and lays it in her lap so it does not fall upon the dirty stone of the floor. A flittering of small moth-things flit about her, glimmering touches of green, settling upon the water periodically or fluttering through the spray of the fountain, drawn by the moisture.
“You wished to speak privately?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you worried for your own honour, or for mine?” she asks—not accusing, perhaps teasing, but with careful and cultivated calm.
“It is a sensitive matter, Queen-of-Elves. I…”
The Queen holds up a hand, and you trail off. She smiles again, that subtle smile.
“I will not be calling you ‘Your Majesty’, and ‘Copper Dragon King of the Bloodrise Mountains’ is too long. You may call me Myrymma. What will I call you?”
You know without even attempting it that your name is unpronounceable to mammalian vocal chords; even Olu butchers it, with his hybrid larynx. Perhaps more importantly, a name is a… Private, intimate thing, in your culture. The Novice Fleshweaver is ‘The Novice Fleshweaver’, or ‘Chaplain’s Daughter’, even to you who knows her true-name and has nestled your body against hers and laid your head in her lap; she, in kind, refers to you exclusively by an array of belligerent insults or, in public, as ‘Dragonborn’, a title you share with one other and with more to come.
