04-27-2018, 07:46 AM
He whisks her away, heading into the woods and out of sight of the pair of Ischian diplomats.
"That was very rude," she tells @[Modicum Mortem], but offers no resistance as he directs her through the shadowy kingdom. The branches overhead cast odd shadows on the ground, and the sound of their hooves as they walk are muffled by the debris of a very old forest.
Lepis stumbles over a root that has grown out of the soil and falls to her knees. Her left elbow creaks uncomfortably, but there is no broken bone - only ego. She rises slowly, shaking a few stray leaves from her pale coat.
She turns to look at the black king, with whom she has had minimal contact with since her arrival.
He has a reputation, but she has not seen much of it. Lepis still wonders what the may things that Arthas had shared about her were; what the clown-nosed monarch might think he knows of her. She thinks of Arthas often, of how he must miss her so desperately. He will need consoling, she tells herself, comfort.
The thought rouses her gift, which has always been closely tied with her own emotions. The sensation of comfort settles over her like a warm blanket, reassuring even as she stares down a king.
"Ischia probably won't think well of us after that." She adds, referring to her previous statement and the way that they had left the envoy. "Don't you know anything about diplomacy and proper etiquette?" He is a king; surely he must.
Lepis is blissfully ignorant of any type of raising beside her own. While she knows that some kingdoms are taken with contention, such examples are extreme; surely most pass peacefully from one blood heir to the next. Modicum Mortem was raised to lead the same way she was, instructed and taught until she could charm her way out of a paper bag.
She has never tried her tricks on Mortem; she hasn't dared.
"That was very rude," she tells @[Modicum Mortem], but offers no resistance as he directs her through the shadowy kingdom. The branches overhead cast odd shadows on the ground, and the sound of their hooves as they walk are muffled by the debris of a very old forest.
Lepis stumbles over a root that has grown out of the soil and falls to her knees. Her left elbow creaks uncomfortably, but there is no broken bone - only ego. She rises slowly, shaking a few stray leaves from her pale coat.
She turns to look at the black king, with whom she has had minimal contact with since her arrival.
He has a reputation, but she has not seen much of it. Lepis still wonders what the may things that Arthas had shared about her were; what the clown-nosed monarch might think he knows of her. She thinks of Arthas often, of how he must miss her so desperately. He will need consoling, she tells herself, comfort.
The thought rouses her gift, which has always been closely tied with her own emotions. The sensation of comfort settles over her like a warm blanket, reassuring even as she stares down a king.
"Ischia probably won't think well of us after that." She adds, referring to her previous statement and the way that they had left the envoy. "Don't you know anything about diplomacy and proper etiquette?" He is a king; surely he must.
Lepis is blissfully ignorant of any type of raising beside her own. While she knows that some kingdoms are taken with contention, such examples are extreme; surely most pass peacefully from one blood heir to the next. Modicum Mortem was raised to lead the same way she was, instructed and taught until she could charm her way out of a paper bag.
She has never tried her tricks on Mortem; she hasn't dared.
