Part 3: Daermone
Translator's Note: No reference to age was given in the book I had received, and inaccuracies are expected in an autobiography, especially when the writer develops his or her book all at once in a later stage of his life, instead of in a consistent journal. Names were 'kindly' supplied by Bregan D'aerthe records as substitutes for the abbreviations, even as certain parties maintain that the writer was not Zaknafein, and the House was not Do'Urden. The benefit of doubt should certainly be provided, though the 'friend' mentioned at the end of this would seem extremely… familiar… to readers versed in dark elven history.
I felt the sour sensation residing in my chest slowly intensify as I carefully levitated up to and landed on the mouth of a higher tunnel. No sounds around me – but I knew from (painful) experience that this was never actually an indication of whether or not I was alone here. The Training Room was most unkind to anyone who let down his or her guard. Using the term 'simulacrums' to describe the creatures inside it was somewhat misleading. The ever-changing terrain in each session of Training were actual 'excerpts' from portions of the Underdark where Unseen were likely to go – such as known patrol routes of Spider Queen groups. One would do well to familiarize himself with such places.
The fact that I was visiting Training more and more often had nothing to do with my 'zeal' on becoming a full Unseen though. I am not a being who particularly enjoys extra work. Just that Training, in the mind-blanking rush of combat and escape and counters, tended to distract. All the irrelevant emotions of jealousy and infatuation and bewilderment at female behaviour tended to go away, as they were trained to, not being particularly helpful when one was attempting to kill one's enemies.
And now you see my predicament.
I hate love. I hate the loss of control over my feelings. I hate the way the mind forms all sorts of wild and irrational conclusions on the actions of the object of one's infatuation – I hate the way it forms worse observations on those that she interacts with. I like Yvaer as a person, but whenever Naetalya starts draping herself on him I can feel the jealousy surge up in a murderous tide, and suddenly the hilts of my swords look extremely attractive to my hands.
It has been nearly a year, and I do not understand where I stay in her eyes. All her physical messages seem contradictory to her treatment of Yvaer – sometimes she touches me in ways that appear inviting – leaning against me or slipping a leg between mine, yet she does this to Yvaer as well! Perhaps it is my total lack of any social experience in such matters, or just some innate insensitivity, but I have no particular idea how to react.
Ignoring her helped for a while, but it is particularly difficult to avoid your mentor for any length of time, and everything hurts now. I wonder if she knows that the world is sharper when she's around – all things are clearer and more real. I wonder if she knows that when she is away the world is darker and the heart aches with a dull unfocused pain.
I wonder if Yvaer feels this too. Sometimes he abruptly leaves the room whenever Naetalya and I are being 'close', and his mouth turns down slightly at one side – a definite sign of irritation. Are they together or just friends? Are they…
I inhaled sharply when something gripped my ankle and pulled, causing me to land ignominiously on my back. Being stupid again, as usual…
Somehow I managed to draw one sword, and, still cursing, sliced at the offending appendage. To my relief it let go with a disgusting sound that reminded me of the death cries of a particularly vocal Lloth-worshipper who had an unfortunate accident with the sharp end of a sword. A quick inspection of my boot revealed no incisions or tears that would indicate penetration and possible poison of the flesh.
With a growl, I drew the other sword and rushed the creature, sweet adrenaline bursting in my mind and in the muscles, and everything was forgotten in swordplay.
Later, after I had tracked down and murdered a few more creatures I felt mildly better, especially since I had forgotten the last part of my train of thought.
I was considering ending this Training session – an effect of nearly a decade in the outpost was an addiction to company, when I stepped on a trap.
**
"Vith!" Now take this for ignominious.
It wasn't even a magical trap.
Suspended upside-down in the air, one foot caught in a simple noose that must have been looped somewhere up at the ceiling and extended down to a pressure mechanism. Stupid, stupid… the only small comfort I had was that as far as I could tell, it wasn't lethal. Yet.
I attempted to sheathe a sword upside-down, nearly cut off a part of my hip, then with the freed hand fumbled for my throwing knives. All this rather hard to do when the blood is rushing to your head and you're furious at yourself for being so blind. Not to mention the mess I'd have to clean up in my scabbard, but it was either that or dropping the sword.
Knife out, forced myself to calm down – hooked my other leg over the tied one and with great effort I curled myself up – no alternative – letting go of the other sword and grabbing with that hand for my legs. A careful throw, and suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet me. I managed to turn a little in time, such that instead of receiving a painful knock to the head I merely had all the breath slammed out of me...and at least I didn't land on the sword on the ground. Swearing somewhat incoherently, I rolled to try and find the dropped sword, and was just able to pause before I impaled my throat on the tip of a blade.
Not a blade – claws, the metal claws of my mentor, who grinned a crooked grin at me once she had my full attention. "Vendui'Zaknafein," she said somewhat mockingly, using an archly formal phrase of greeting as emphasis, "Sometimes I wonder if you ever listen to me about traps and the Underdark."
I mumbled an apology, hoping my cheeks weren't burning in the infrared, and attempted to get up. This was hampered by the fact that her katar did not move an inch.
The look of amusement on her face informed me that my cheeks were on fire.
"No, stay there. Now you listen to me – when walking in the Underdark, pay attention to your surroundings for natural – or unnatural – things that could cause your untimely demise."
"I was distracted," I growled, "And about to end Training."
"Do try not to be 'distracted' on a real mission, then. You cannot end those."
"I will not be."
"Very confident words for someone who just fell prey to one of the most obvious tricks in the book, so to speak. As followers of Vhaerun we have to learn some of the thieving skills, especially those that aid in our continued survival, and as far as I can see…"
I tried to tune her out – the frustration about the situation between her and myself was still present - but the somewhat slightly unfocussed cast to my eyes must have been rather obvious to a seasoned teacher, because she carefully but firmly stepped on my hand. I bit on my lip to stifle the yelp of pain.
"Which part of 'listen to me' do you not understand?"
I considered telling her about how I felt about her, but had the feeling that a declaration of love from someone currently in a position of extreme incompetence might be perceived as a joke, or worse, as something to be easily dismissed, so I kept quiet and endured the scolding.
There would be a later, I hoped.
**
There wasn't one.
Without the courage to tell her, I let events drag on for a few years – perhaps one problem with elves is the feeling – somewhat correctly – that they always have a lot of time to do anything they want, since their lifespan is so long.
There was a change in plans then – apparently Vhaerun had instructed me to return to Menzoberranzan, where I was to eventually – it would be arranged – join the Academy's Melee-Magthere and enter the noble class. Whatever this would be for I had no idea, since the upper class males had even less freedom than the commoners, but since both my mentor and Yvaer seemed to believe this had its advantages, I was forced to agree. Naetalya was of the opinion that I had learned as much as I could of the Dance from her, and as to traps, I merely had to pay attention. I could relay information and communicate with them via some sort of steel cloak clasp which was in the common-enough shape of a deep-dragon's head.
Naetalya was silent on the way through the Paths back to Menzoberranzan, as was I – I was beginning to, belatedly, suspect that this entire get-up was not entirely Vhaerun's order, if in fact it was. It could quite easily have been Yvaer's, since he was the one who 'received' most of Vhaerun's bidding. If this were true, it would deal a somewhat severe blow on my belief in the gods, which years in Veldrin had failed to increase. I believe in myself and in none other for my survival and welfare – taking full responsibility for whatever happens to me.
Yvaer and Naetalya had sensed this streak of – wilful, independence, perhaps – in me several years ago, and they had not then seemed to mind. Conceivably this was what, in hindsight, caused them to send me away – not some juvenile jealousy on Yvaer's part - Naetalya could always cease her dangerous raids on Lloth-drow and wait for the next generation's Unseen to train. Dark elves can live for a long time, after all. Unseen too did not seem to serve any large purpose, in any case, and Unseen were not, as I had once thought, an incredibly important part of Vhaerun's scheme. He was far too cautious to place too much in one mortal. All his followers had a near equal importance in His eyes, even if it was just the mundane one of existing and carrying on his faith. I had no such faith, even though I much preferred His teaching to Lloth's – but because I lacked the willingness to worship him, I would have been more useless in a way from any normal Vhaerun follower.
Perhaps they were sending me away to die. What secrets could I release in any case, even under torture? I did not know the Paths to Veldrin – any Veldrin, in fact, and was at the moment disinclined to remember anything about them. I was then frustrated and young enough to want a change in life that now I wished I had not taken.
Naetalya was not without her faults, and as a first love, would probably have ended rather quickly. Older Unseen do not survive for very long once the 'replacements' are fully trained, in theory, and she herself had remarked on occasion that I was well prepared already. It was not a talent for the blade – I believe that word destroys all the hard work one puts into learning a skill – but determination and a small obsession with the Dance. She was rather prone to blindly following the dictates of her God, and often ran roughshod over others, even those concerned about her own welfare. It may have just been infatuation instead of love – I was far too young at twenty years to fully understand love, come to think of it – and any association may have ended quickly. She may not even have felt anything more than common desire for me at all.
I wished then, however, and I wish now, that I had said something to her on the Paths back to Menzoberranzan, because it was the last I saw of her.
**
Menzoberranzan's beauty had not changed in all the years I had spent in Veldrin. I was quite surprised to learn that I missed it, but at that point in time all the stories about High Priestess cruelty and such were just stories that Mother had told me to frighten me. Most of what I had seen of Menzoberranzan had been Mother and her work. I felt the urge to go looking for her, and for the others, but Naetalya had warned me before she left not to do anything of the sort. I was to walk in a straight line down this Manyfolk alley and mind my own business until 'business' came to me.
My identity was that of a son of a comfortably well-to-do merchant commoner family out looking for entertainment, which would explain the only lightly magicked armour and swords. Dark elves love magic, and a wealthy son would have some, though nothing of particular power. Of precisely what family, I was not to say unless severely questioned, during which, I was told, Vhaerun would provide. That made me rather determined to avoid such questioning.
'Business' came rather quickly in the form of six House soldiers, a hooded, floating figure behind them. It was rather obvious what rank the figure was, considering she was not making much effort to conceal the spider disk she stood on. Sometimes I wonder why Matrons bother about going 'incognito', since even their attitude is a sharp hint to anything that isn't blind or deaf.
Relief that the narrowness of the alleyway only allowed two to come at me at any point in time was somewhat dispelled when two of them levitated over the others to try and get me from behind, and the remaining two levitated upwards as well, though this time with ranged weapons. Bows, daggers.
Now this wasn't fair, though I'd expected them to try and deal with me in this manner. Soldiers only make sport of the unarmed by going at them one at a time – with an armed creature, they tend to work together. No charging him one at a time then – dark elves are normally cautious.
I willed a globe of darkness quickly on the ranged soldiers, then ducked a swing from one those in front of me, kicking him just below the knee joint such that he stumbled into his companion. Curses from within the globe gave me a broad hint as to their approximate positions, and since as they weren't wearing face-guards, I threw two daggers in quick succession at their heads. The third dagger was somewhat interrupted by the fact that the stumbled soldier had made a slash at me with his sword, and one of those behind me had thrust with a spear. Jumping back, I noticed that one of the levitating soldiers, at least, seemed dead, a dagger having made a deep nest of his nose. The other had moved out of the globe, and had only suffered a sliced cheek. Vith.
At least the Matron, whoever she was, was not helping, only watching the skirmish, or the fight would have been short, nasty, and lethal on my part. Soldiers weren't particularly valuable to some Houses, after all, since they have quite a few of them. With her attitude I guessed her to be at least in the top twenty-five houses in running for the Council.
I feinted with the third, as if to throw it at one of the soldiers nearly on top of me, but quickly changed direction as he raised his shield in defence. This dagger hit the soldier right at the back in the eye. Yes!
Not very good soldiers, though. Probably not near top ten.
Drawing my swords quickly, I realized that given the Matron made no move to interfere, I was behind all the soldiers, and only two could come at any time, unless they tried levitation again. Parrying a slash such that a soldier's sword nearly hit the adamantite chain-mail chest of the other soldier, I made use of the flinch and the oath of the other to attempt my own attack. I slashed at his face, knowing he would jerk back or dodge, in which case – ah – a gash above his eyes would cause blood to obscure his vision briefly enough for me to twist quickly away from the attack by his companion, past the shield, and make a quick jab at the exposed part of his arm, severing the correct artery such as to render it useless. Not unlike mages with their spells, a good fighter needs a good memory for anatomy.
Stupid – wasn't concentrating on the other two… a blow from above. Dodging caused me to nearly lose my footing in a quick scramble to the right, and I blocked a slice from the other levitated soldier. Everything was confused, and all the soldiers now looked the same, but the world was quicker and alive now that…
Pushing aside a blind swipe from the eye gashed spear-soldier, I managed to – barely – parry a flurry of slices from above and to my left, the shield soldier having moved in front of the spear in defensive.
Another few parries – not all successful, now had a few gashes which were making my hands slippery and stinging - and an opening – had been pushing the soldier on my right to slash lower and lower, and now I gave him the tip of my sword through his mouth. An attempt at the neck would have theoretically given him just enough time to recover. Recovering from that earned me a slice from above that I only scarcely saw since I was attempting to dodge the spear, which just barely hit my shoulder plate in a nasty chime instead of muscles on my arm, so I returned the favour with a jab at the uncovered – stupid armour design – arm joint.
At this point in time the Matron decided to cut losses. "Stop fighting," she commanded. Her remaining soldiers obediently – with great relief, I should add – ceased. I considered cutting them down just for fun, but guessed that the Matron would not take kindly to that, probably to the tune of a snake-whip lashing or worse. Soldiers, even pathetic ones, cost money.
"What is your name, commoner?" she asked coolly.
I bowed, hoping it would appear obsequious enough. "Zaknafein, malla Ilharess."
"Who are you?"
"Just a son of a merchant, malla Ilharess, who has seen fit to find teachers for me in the ways of weapons."
"Are you in the Academy?"
"No, malla Ilharess. No commoner can enter without House sponsorship."
The Matron nodded at this. "Come with me. You now belong to House Do'Urden. Your family will be honoured."
"Yes, Matron."
She shot me a sharp glance, and I hoped she did not detect the mild contempt in my voice – though if she did, she gave no indication. "You will join Melee-Magthere's next intake."
**
House Do'Urden was at present without a proper weaponsmaster – that is to say, a skilled one. The previous, supposedly competent one – according to Matron Daermone Do'Urden, at least – had come to an end in an accident involving stupidity, a weakness for gambling, debts, and collectors. As to what happened to his corpse…
"Do you want to see his resurrected, tortured body in the dungeons? As a source of inspiration." I wasn't particularly sure if this was black humour on her part, because her face remained an indifferent mask.
"Uh. No thank you, malla Ilharess,"
"Then go and help our current inept weaponsmaster. You cannot be declared a weaponsmaster until you pass Melee-Magthere, but you might as well go and look at the problem, then inform me. If he tries any sort of ah… encouragement on you for a positive report, kill him."
"Do you want the body resurrectable?" Resurrection took a lot of effort, and normally Lloth-priestesses couldn't be bothered, but you'd never know. It required the body in more-or-less one piece to be successful.
Now there was a ghost of a smile, though a somewhat cruel one. "I could like you, Zaknafein."
"Could?"
"One thing you should stop doing is asking so many questions, youngling."
Matron Daermone was definitely one of the more-patient Matrons I had met. But then, I did not have much experience with Matrons around this tier. At twenty-third House, the Matron was in the strange position of having to conserve her troops, yet show to the rest of Menzoberranzan society that her House finances were good enough for her to afford others if she needed to. She settled for – as I later found out – occasional bouts of excess followed by periods of 'savings', as she put it. Mouthing off was mostly only allowed during the 'savings' periods, and one did not need to have a mage's brain to figure out her more or less stable times.
A hint? It coincided with a female's monthly… 'problems'.
**
The current weaponsmaster was inept, but his saving grace was that he knew it and made no secret of it – at least to me. He did not have much hope of improving, which was not particularly his fault, since it was rather difficult to get good, trustworthy teachers outside Academy. He had grown up off the streets, and we got along, although a little cautiously at first.
He was shorter than me, and seemed dwarfed by the wide Do'Urden training room, and from the way his sharp, bright eyes constantly looked around the room; I guessed that he'd been born commoner, probably lived the first part of his life as a beggar-thief urchin. He was thin, but there were hints of muscle under the chainmail and surcoat sleeves. When his eyes settled on me, there was no surprise in his expression.
"You my replacement?" As I found out later, his 'street' slang tended to come out – to the Matron's irritation – whenever he was under stress. Matrons like to pretend their weaponsmasters are of noble blood, even if they patently are not. One does not require noble blood to be good at something, in any case.
"No, an assistant."
He looked me up and down, and then said, "Draw your weapons."
"I was not told to fight you."
"You better not be." There was just the faintest twitch at his mouth, and later I realized why – he had known of the conversation I'd had with the Matron. One thing I learnt from him later was the necessity of keeping a spy network within the House, even a small one. However, I did not really put it into practice… due to stupidity and well, my being far too lazy to maintain it. I would probably regret it in the future.
Shrugging, I drew my swords, and stood in a basic stance rather automatically.
"You good with those?"
"Fair."
He chuckled. "You are my replacement. Can see it."
"At the moment I am just your assistant."
"If you say so." He gestured vaguely. "You sheathe those things now, then tell me what you wan' to do. My name is Soelisk."
"I am known as Zaknafein."
"I think you were told to fight me," Soelisk said slowly, then sighed. "Want to get it over with?"
"Do you want to survive this?" I asked curiously.
He grinned. "Ain't that what we all want to hear in a fight."
**
"So?" Matron Daermone asked. She sat in her throne and was reading a tome when I respectfully knocked – and was allowed entrance - at the Chapel.
"He can improve, malla Ilharess." I hoped so. What Soelisk had shown a great knowledge in was in fighting 'dirty', which he would naturally have learnt on the streets. However, if you knew what to watch for, you normally could avoid getting incapacitated by it – fists and feet are no match against an opponent skilled in blade and unarmed.
"Make sure he does, until you come back from Melee-Magthere. In the meantime, train the soldiers with him. Have you taught before?"
"No, malla Ilharess."
"Then you would find that being good at something and being able to teach that something to another are two very different positions. Learn how to teach."
"Yes, malla Ilharess."
"I should probably start with the threats, but you know most of them, and this tome is just turning interesting."
"Asanque, malla Ilharess." I was getting tired with the obsequiousness. Any more and I would probably have started oozing oil.
"Go away, Zaknafein. Try to be useful."
"Very well."
"You forgot the 'malla Ilharess' there, youngling." She smirked when I looked sharply at her. "And the part about not meeting a Matron's eyes. I believe I will have to watch you when you show teeth along with your claws…" she returned to her book, dismissing the matter. "Tell the guards outside to show you your room."
**
"Are there other members of this House?" I asked Soelisk after one session where I watched him teach. He was a passable teacher – he knew how to make the soldiers work, and when to let them take a break and still get on their good side. Influence is a large part of teaching – ability at the subject is not even near half of it.
Soelisk had stripped to his pants, and was busying himself by towelling off. He seemed to have this rigid schedule for bathing – once a day – which occasionally annoyed the fastidious Matron. Come to think of it, most females are fastidious – at least about bathing. I never really understood it.
"Two daughters, and one interchangeable patron. Currently he's a mage. You've probably seen him before – name of Y'faen."
"Nose in the air?"
"Yeh." Soelisk smirked. "I've 'accidentally' run him through sooner, 'cept that mages are tricky as cave rats, an' the Matron may get touchy."
"I have not seen the daughters."
"Not surprising – they are, at the moment, students in Arach-Tinilith. Matron Daermone is a bit hot about that – makes her the only Priestess at House to defend."
"No attacks yet?"
"No, but we're expecting one."
"When?"
Soelisk shrugged. "The daughters will come back if needed, and raids normally take place at end-cycle. Sometimes they come back for visits. Scheming things… you can just see the ambition leaking out of their ears."
"Looking for a takeover?"
"Smart enough to wait till they're full-trained to High Priestess before trying, I think. Especially the younger – Malice Do'Urden. A looker, but damned smart – don't let her near you. Elder is Reprise Do'Urden, cruel and somewhat more possessed of that thing females have against us males."
"In a lethal way?"
"Could say that. I don' think the males are dead, but they look dead after whatever she does."
"Ah."
"You be careful," Soelisk winked. The scars, thin white traceries across his cheek, crawled up, like worms. "You still got a pretty face. They'd both be after you – and you're good enough at those…" he pointed at my swords, "For them to consider keeping you as a long-term investment. Stay out of their way in holidays, my advice to you."
"You'd follow them instead of Matron Daermone?"
"I prefer the current Matron," Soelisk shrugged. "But you need to prepare, yes? No Matrons last forever. It's that way."
"Oh, another thing about Malice," Soelisk added, as I was heading out. "She's a 'reader."
I hate mind-readers.
**
It was sometime before the new Intake started and after the high point of her 'savings' that Matron Daermone decided to 'relieve' me of my 'sexual ignorance', and taught me something else about dark elven females.
Though she still persisted in referring to me mainly as 'youngling', the inference about her age was not really to be believed. Unless Matrons decide to take on certain pressurizing tasks such as controlling Zin-carla, they tended not to show their age, and Daermone was very attractive. It was not hard to deduce where Malice got her looks from, if Soelisk had been correct in his description.
Y'faen, as far as I could tell, could not be bothered. Matron Daermone had taken several patrons in a few years until she came to one who was not given to occasional bouts of jealousy about the real or perceived threat to his position. Y'faen, being the only mage of capability that the House had, was at the moment indispensable, and he knew it. He also knew that Daermone was not particularly disposed to criticism directed at her, and was intelligent enough not to do anything that she did not tell him to.
One thing that Soelisk mentioned only later was that both daughters also had children of their own – though since their mothers were not Matrons, the grandchildren of Daermone were seen as non-noble. Malice's daughter in particular made me feel uneasy whenever I saw her. She was built like a non-drow – though suggest that in front of her if you do not feel like living. Briza, she was called, and she had an attitude towards males that even normal dark elves found extreme. Suffice to say, she took no lovers, even though she was quite a bit older than me, and if not for Matron Daermone, would probably have started killing off all the male soldiers in House Do'Urden.
Malice had another child, a quiet boy slightly younger than I was, called Nalfein. Nalfein was gifted with that particular intelligence common to quite a few mages which causes them to excel in magic and then probably end up getting killed by a blade due to neglect. Not to mention mages somehow eventually end up believing that because of magic, they are more or less invincible. At the moment, under instruction, Y'faen was training Nalfein for Sorcere, and I was rather sure he would do well – if he survived. I had no doubt that if Reprise eventually won the power struggle, both Briza and Nalfein would be murdered.
Reprise had one daughter, older than Briza, loyal and nearly a mirror image (according to Soelisk) of her mother.
"Saole, she's near enough to Reprise to scare you," he'd confided once. "They move the same, think the same, hell, they even talk the same. Saole, she likes to fright me – anyone that is - that way – come up behind me then talk in Reprise's voice. Bloody trouble, that girl." Though the way his eyes softened whenever he talked about Saole pushed open doors for speculation.
Whether or not Saole returned his feelings was none of my business – privately, I thought it unlikely. Saole, from the glimpses I had seen of her, had a symmetrical, sensitive face with a stately beauty enhanced by her graceful figure, softly framed by hip-length hair. Soelisk had said Malice was prettier, but I did not particularly care. Being involved with one female at a time was complicated enough, and Saole had certainly never shown any interest in me other than vague curiosity. What made it more unlikely was that Soelisk was neither a good weaponsmaster nor was he handsome – the scars on his face were permanent, and his build was not particularly impressive. It was a hereditary thing, apparently – Soelisk rather liked it. He could, he said, eat whatever he liked and not need to work it off.
A word of advice for noble males – unless very powerful, do not let yourself get out of shape, even for mages. Drow females have a rather terminal reaction to obesity that starts at revulsion and goes down from there. I've heard that such a reaction exists – though at a lesser extent, and vice versa – amongst male and female surfacer humans, not that it really matters.
**
"Tomorrow you join Melee-Magthere." Matron Daermone told me.
"I know, malla Ilharess." That earned me a Look.
"The teachers there will not tolerate your occasional insolence, so do try and keep quiet."
"Yes, malla Ilharess."
"Try and come back alive."
"I have no intention of dying, malla Ilharess."
A chuckle. "Few of us do."
That, at least was true. Most dark elves – sane ones, at any rate – have an encompassing obsession with life that allow them to endure all that fate throws at them and still be able to wake up for the next cycle, never to try and leave their lives as it is for new ones, because they do not want to die.
It is not cowardice, in my opinion, to want to stay alive. Life is always worth fighting for, especially if it is your own. Only the older elves tend to understand the true value of life – younglings like I was then did not truly see it as a priority, compared to other possessions. Wealth, strength, love, power, freedom - mean nothing when you are dead, for even undeath in itself is a type of prison.
I learnt that from a 'friend' I made in the Academy.
--
Notes and References:
Vendui'Zaknafein: I/we greet you, Zaknafein
Malla Ilharess: honoured Matron
Asanque: As you wish