After helping themselves to a bath and a fresh pair of clothes (Sær in silk robes, Priscilla in satin curtains) the pair set off, heading deeper into the cavern. The lights that line the fields have dimmed, hanging far above as false stars, throwing dim blue light across the cavern.
The air, while cleaner than one might expect for a subterranean commune, still retained a certain stuffiness tinged with damp and must. The only breeze to be felt comes from passing ghosts, bringing with them the scent of ozone and rotting cloth.
The cloth-partitioned rooms of lounging nobles now lay empty save for scattered goblets and tasseled pillows. Without the noise and odor of indulgence and debauchery, the tomb finally does feel like just that.
It is the quietest place they have ever experienced, even more silent than when they lay buried in Darkroot Forest. There is no wind, no groaning trees, no skittering rodents, and no birds. It is oppressively quiet, so much so that the beat of Priscilla's large heart is the only thing to hear.
Suddenly, as they round a massive stone pillar, voices reach them from far away, carrying easily in the silence. The glow of braziers in the distance is broken by a circle of pillars, the circle split down the middle with a high wall of tunneled rock.
Intrigued, and with their options for recreation limited, the pair make their way towards the center of the cavern, the voices growing louder and more fervent as they draw near.
"-And we must not ignore such a sign! For there to be both gods and mortals intruding from the surface, the age of dark must have come and gone!"
A second, more apprehensive voice echoes across the cavern. "We would be truly mad fools to risk two hundred years of preparation for your simple inference, ser."
Priscilla and Sær exchange an intrigued look.
As they grow closer they see the tall, noble figures crowded around the rock, looking up to a crowned man. A hush falls over the group, squabbles dying on their lips as they
quickly become of aware of the pair walking towards them, the man seeming dwarfish next to the woman. Several gasp as they realize the two were not, in fact, a woman and a dwarf, but a normal man and a woman easily three meters high!
An awed hush falls over the crowd, their collective gazes darting back and forth between the newcomers and the sharp-faced man on the rock.
Shrewd, smiling, amicable eyes, pouring out a gaze sharp enough to have cut the throne of stone on which he sat, stare down at the crowd.
Then, so sudden that all present gave a startled twitch, he tosses his crown into the air and leaps down the rock, cartwheeling down the small handholds to land spritely on the ground.
The man angles his head just so, and his crown lands perfectly on his head with a painful smack, at which he winces and rubs his head.
"Enough! No squabbling in front of our guests!" He shouts in a booming, authoritative tone. The crowd, appropriately cowed, parts to let him walk through. As he approaches Priscilla and Sær, he sweeps into a deep, courtly bow as he speaks.
"The gracious King Vendrick humbly welcomes you to Nokron, the Eternal City."