“Those guys in the corner, with hoods.” Serena points to them.
“Oh that is real inconspicuous,” you comment.
She rolls her eyes. Not that you can really tell but her body language says that is what she is doing. “Sometimes it is better to go unseen than unnoticed.”
“Whatever,” you head over to the table. The figures become stiff as you near. “So these are your friends?”
“Well, one of them is an old friend.” She flutters down from your shoulder and alights upon the table. She bows deeply, with both grandeur and humility, to the figure farthest from the door. “My Lord,” she pauses ceremonially, but quickly continues in whisper that a falling drop of rain could over power, “My dear Lord Sean Mallory, bearer of the Maester Swoerd and Slayer of Sehkmet, it is an honour to meet you again.” Although the name was familiar you could not place it with any certainty. He held up his hand and all the world seemed to shimmer and fade, as if a great fog had taken it all, the other patrons were no clearer to the naked eye than a Monet.
“That should glamour should, keep unwanted eyes away,” explained this Sean Mallory. The company removed their hoods. In total, they numbered five, two were human though there was something otherworldly about them, one was a light elf whose extraordinarily rare large bosom revealed that all too difficultly discovered gender, a dark elf whose sex was less evident, and another hobbit lass.
Sean looked to Serena with eyes as black as the Abyss, but somehow they did not inspire fear, but hope and security. He was a man with a beauty which could not be denied by any gender. His hair was long pulled back into a ponytail and while it was certainly some care was given to it, but it was the kind of care a soldier gives to his boots, belt, or handkerchief. He had a rugged face, though cleanly kept it was certain from his lean face, the faintest scar over his left eye, but it was more than this how he held his body and the brow that had known far too many woes all told that he had seen far more than his fair share of battle. “My dear, Serena you know me as a friend, there is no such need for formalities.”
“My Lord what you have done, demands such respect,” although she was no longer bowing she had yet to look up. It sent a chill through your body to think that this man before you had done something to elicit so much honour. I made you feel small as if some how you had squandered you life for though he was your elder he could not be more than twenty years of age, unless as you hoped he was much older than he appeared. Many spellweavers are thus, after all.
He chuckled, “Serena please don’t, it is weird enough for me when strangers do this, but you are my friend, please, treat your other friends,” he motioned to you. “Please if you would honour me you can do more be friend.” He’s smile was warming to the soul, and his voice contained an authority matched only by king in full dress with his all his legions behind him. Serena obeyed reluctantly.
Then he turned his attentions to you. His right eye flashes a glow of red, as red as a faldor’s scale. He says to you, “Come, of , son of Ulfgar, bearer of Aesireldr, sit with us you are welcome to our company.” You are sure you have told him nothing of yourself and you have yet to forge a reputation someone as great as he seemed to be, would ever have heard of which. Some magics, deep magics, deeper than a simple illusion, were at work and this made you uneasy.
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