Rolled 19, 16, 18, 7, 8 = 68 (5d20)
>>5903744“Excuse me a moment,” you say, extracting yourself from the talented masseusery of your supervisors-turned-friends. If they take umbrage, they show no sign of it. In fact, when you steal a glance behind you they are already joining a small circle of other eladrin who smile and wave and then seem to engage in one of those eerily-wordless conversations. They are, admittedly, less eerie when accompanied by so much music—some of the moon-elves brought instruments, it seems—and even the occasional ‘outburst’ of soft, dainty laughter from sufficiently-intoxicated guests sampling this ‘soma’ substance which seems popular here (a thick, syrupy substance which psychoactive properties you've steered clear of, just in case).
Your objective, though, is across the room.
You snatch up a few hors d'oeuvre as you pass a floating tray of them, sparing the levitating apparatus a moment to poke and prod at it and to marvel at its ability to compensate for the jostling. Then, with the somewhat-wobbly faux-casual air of a tipsy young man trying and failing to be subtle, you approach your mark.
“Hey there!” you greet the familiar elf from the council-meeting many months ago. “Mithel, was it?”
“It is,” he confirms, looking up from his marq. “You can tell us apart, then?”
“Well, yeah,” you scoff. “Even Nym and Devi, and they’re—”
“Twins.”
You blink. You look back at them again, squinting, and then turn to Mithel, who is smiling.
“You didn’t know,” he says.
“Well, you all do have a certain… Similarity, compared to the people where I’m from,” you note. “In Hawksong, even the humans have different eye and hair colours, and face shapes, and even SKIN colours... And that’s before you get into the, you know, other races. But yeah, I guess they are ESPECIALLY identical.”
“They’re not identical twins,” Mithel corrects you.
You give up, throwing your hands in the air in defeat—and nearly scattering appetizers everywhere before you catch yourself.
“Say, speaking of where I come from,” you attempt to snatch intelligence from the jaws of ignorant ignominy, “have you heard anything from,… The Gods?”
Mithel raises an eyebrow.
“You know,” you press, “about the coming age of High Magic, and what they mean to do about it?”
Mithel frown a little, and you holds up your hands again, this time in an apologetic gesture.
“I’m not asking for anything you’ve been forbidden to share, of course,” you say (you hope) smoothly. “It’s just I’m returning home soon, and I want to know what I should ready myself to face.”
