Despite the jovial, welcoming demeanor of their royal host, Sær felt cold rivulets of dread trickling down his spine, pooling to form an uneasy hollow sensation in his stomach. It was more than the haunting familiarity of the kings face, the taunting similarity of the style of robes to Sær's own, Majula-made raiment now laying dirty in an adjacent cavern.

The respect he displayed wasn't that of a gentleman. His was the respect a man gives his finest possessions, the care one gives to a finely carved chair, a chunk of carved driftwood, a chess set. And yet despite this detestable, greedy feeling oozing off the so-called king like blood from a wound, Sær and Priscilla found him maddeningly likeable.

"We-" Sær starts.

"We sincerely meant no intrusion, your Grace," Priscilla interrupts. Her husband has little enough courtly tact in the best of times, and this was certainly not the best of times. The formalities flowed like honey from her tongue, familiar as she was with high court.

"It is with great reverence we humbly greet your majesty, and with immense gratitude we receive his hospitality," She recites, sweeping into a curtsy.

"Yes, thanks for having us, Vendrick," Sær adds, rubbing his neck nervously.

"My name is -OW!"

Sær yelps as he is forcibly bent into a bow by Priscilla's tail.

'Art thou well and truly mad?!' Priscilla exclaims through her Everlasting Orchid. 'Thou'rt before a King! Even the thickest of pates wouldn't pass a thought of such loathesome, loutish comport!'

'Pates? Do you mean plates? I'm not wearing any armor! And I'm not being disrespectful, I am being charmingly pedestrian! Nobles love it when people do that!'

"Indeed we do," The king adds.

Sær and Priscilla both give a violent start as the King interrupts their mental conversation.

"Though I must say, I never expected to encounter another Everlasting Orchid in all my days," he continues. "I made very few, on account of their potential for misuse. Imagine how easy it would be plan a coup with these little beauties."

"Y-y-you made them?" Sær stutters.

"With no small amount of trouble," King Vendrick replies. "In fact, I only ever shared the secret to their creation with one woman... A woman I was sure would perish in the coming age of dark."

"Gwynevere," Sær breathes.

"Ah, you know of her? Yes, I must admit I was quite taken with her, in my youth. Even sharing the secret to creating an Everlasting Orchid did nothing to stir her affections."

A shadow falls across the king, the gauntness of his face waxed to corpse-like proportions.

"That scaleless snake she so fancied... I presume he is your father," he asks the floor, barely glancing at Priscilla. Ugly, spurned, lovingly nurtured hatred spiked his words, creeping through the darkness to send chills down her spine.

"Yes, he was," Priscilla answers evenly.

"Was? Surely he could not have been done in so easily? The 'Greatest Mind of the Age' felled like leafless tree?"

The king moves close, serpentine in his speed and agility. His face stretches into the darkness, the high rock behind him warping and bending, light refracts around his ever-thinning frame. Though five feet shorter than Priscilla, he towers over her, his disgust now sharp and evident.

"And how was that accomplished?" The king whispers, his voice long and loping from the grotesquely lengthened face, mercifully swathed in shadow. Cold suspicion drips from every word, turning them sharp and clear and biting by the time they reach Priscilla's ears.

"He was killed by one of his own creations," she replies.

"And what creation would that be, woman?" The king asks, his glowing pupils pinpricks despite the darkness.

Priscilla leans forward, her face emotionless and even from decades of practice. "You look upon her."