Amethyst — Roleplayer Guild

Nenra gave a grin that might be considered vaguely feral. “Not bookish by any means, no,” she replied, belatedly tacking on a “my lord” at the end. She shifted uncomfortably under his piercing, reptilian gaze. 

“My family?” A light laugh bubbled out from her chest, surprising her. Just the thought evoked enough joy to get her to laugh, evidently. “We do what we can, but there’s little that three hundred farmers can do against a Drakken warband.” She referred to the entire population of her village here, referring to the close-knit community as a sort of family. “Those of us who were taken – myself and four of my cousins, and eight others besides – went willingly. Of course we did; fighting back is the surest way to get your family killed.” She said it matter-of-factly, bitterness clouding her words. They’d all heard of the towns who’d fought back. Every woman of marryable age was taken, anyone who stood between the lords and their prizes cut down like corn in the fields.

She perked up slightly when Zakroti mentioned a gardener. Presumably, to have a gardener, they had to have a garden. She tried not to let her interest show through too much, of course. She was here, that was fine, but she wasn’t supposed to be happy about it. 
Miry giggled nervously when Zak mentioned people of different form and stature. Presumably he wasn’t just speaking of humans, though they were odd themselves – somewhere between Drakkan and Gem in stature and form, built on a set of proportions that couldn’t agree, and, though less all-consumed with rage than the drakkan were, still constantly at war with each other over differences in appearance and language and faith. Miry couldn’t fathom it; she thought humans might be the very furthest thing imaginable from her own people. 

But after the incident with the mounts (she turned warily to regard the creatures again at the thought) she was not about to make the same mistake with people, too. She tried to keep an open mind, wracking her brain for any mention of the city he’d mentioned, because if she knew the place she might have an idea of the sorts of people – and surely, if there was a reference anywhere in the library, she might’ve heard of it, or at least seen a reference number for the place on the grand map that occupied the entire front wall of the main level of archives…

She vaguely conjured an image of brackish water, marble pillars, and little green creatures, amphibious beings with a simple intelligence and language with no written form. 

Miry wasn’t certain, but the name did have a vaguely familiar sound. It was likely not the name she knew the place by, but that was why the archive had used reference numbers in annotated manuscripts – all names of the place referred back to the grand map, and to a list of all the possibly-associated names or names from older empires. The system did the best it could to eliminate confusion, though of course was not entirely successful. And she was by no means the master of it, not yet, at least. She was certain she hadn’t known a hundredth of the relevant information contained in their archive; even her aunt, at nearly 50 – and twenty years the warden – was regularly surprised by the sheer quantities of information she’d not even known existed prior to pulling a book. 

Miry tittered nervously at the implication – was there an implication? She couldn’t even be certain of that – of “becoming well acquainted”. This was the life she’d been given over into, and she would make the best she could of it, but – she was still terrified of what that might entail.

She wrapped her arm tighter around Zak’s, leaning her head against his shoulder. 

After a moment of reflection, deciding that the knot of fear wound in her stomach was not going to let her enjoy much more of the stew (which was, admittedly, growing on her), she retrieved the half-eaten bowl and - after one more bite - emptied the rest of its contents into Zak's bowl, signing that he’d probably find more use for the nourishment than she would.
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