>>5418167>>5418170“Your master… This princeling… He is the queen’s son, then, yes?”
Your long-time allies are unable to understand the subtle retort, the insulting ‘misunderstanding’ veiled in false ignorance. He who can, Oluwadamilare, must stifle a laugh; however, with his skilled Infiltrator expertise, you doubt anyone else familiar with him would notice the incredibly momentary slip-up. To the elves in your retinue, though, it is a grave heresy—their eyes widen, mouths part slightly as they stare agape. None correct you, though any who have tarveled logn with you know well enough that Princess Jazkarmel must have explained something of their politics before your arrival.
But the Elf-Mage, emissary of the King-to-maybe-be, does not.
“That is not… Quite how it works.”
“Oh?” you ask innocently. “You do not follow primogeniture, then? He is one son among many? Then… Forgive me, but would it not be more prudent to pay my visit to your crown’s current holder, rather than an aspirant?”
“Her time will soon be at an end,” the androgynous sorcerer with the booming voice says, eyes flashing with the willpower needed to hold back harsher words and explosive power. “The season of women and weakness ends. Elf-men stand tall again.”
“But… You are an elf-man, then?” you ask, with feigned shock. “I am sorry, I… I did not realize. Your race’s stature… Your slimness… It is hard for me to tell.”
The mage looks up at you, poorly hiding fury. He must look QUIET a ways up, with your current stature and his own stunted height—though he is tall for an elf, he is still shy of six feet in height, where you have grown to tower at ten, with a broad and muscular frame covered in glistening copper scales which put his drab grey-white silks and mottled grey-black, mammal-sweaty skin to shame.
(Not to mention that, with your hemipenes, you’d win any contest of manhood by a ration of two-to-one…)
“I am,” he says, through a gritted-tooth ‘smile’.
“Well, I am sure you are much beloved by elf-maids,” you say, with casual disinterest. “I seem to be as well, though… In a different way, of course! Ha!”
His eyes narrow.
“I am sorry,” you say, with a low bow of your horned head. “I was summoned by the Queen-of-Elves. I feel… Obligated… To make an appearance at your people’s royal house, first and foremost.”
“I understand,” he snarls toothily, “of course.”
With that, the elf-wizard turns on heel. His swordsmen follow him—if, indeed, they are not swordswomen, or sword-neuters, or whatever-in-the-hells else elves see fit to field in battle.
