[ She catches him near one of the sideboards, laden with enough food to feed a village for a week, head tilted as he examines a bottle of wine. The label is worn smooth with age - frustratingly hard to decipher. Not goblin, nor troll, nor tree-spirit. None of the languages he is accustomed to, or any of the human tongues beside. A small part of him hopes to find his sister here. But it is a very small part; no doubt she is with their father, safe at court. Where she belongs.
The woman's voice draws him from errant musings and he turns, taking in her face, before they trail up to a pair of elegant horns. There is a faint glint of admiration in his golden gaze. ]
I am Nuada, called Silverlance, madam. [ He drops his head into a short, but graceful, bow. She is clearly not human and therefore more than worthy of proper manners. ] Son of Balor, ruling king of the Clan Bethmoora.
no subject
The woman's voice draws him from errant musings and he turns, taking in her face, before they trail up to a pair of elegant horns. There is a faint glint of admiration in his golden gaze. ]
I am Nuada, called Silverlance, madam. [ He drops his head into a short, but graceful, bow. She is clearly not human and therefore more than worthy of proper manners. ] Son of Balor, ruling king of the Clan Bethmoora.