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Her gaze followed him as he moved away to make the tea she had asked for. She did not say a word, but observed him quietly, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, as if the future of Ethgan’tor was not at stake. She was waiting, simply waiting for the things that were yet to come. As he returned, she nodded at him and murmurred a soft “thank you”. She leaned forward to accept the cup from him and wrapped her fingers around it. It was warm, almost warm enough to be uncomfortable. “I know”, she whispered to him. Her eyes met his for an instant, and then she leaned back and took a sip from her cup as if the drink was all that mattered.
As he left she rose from the chair and walked around the room a bit. She was excited, impatient, worried, and when nobody else was around, she allowed those feelings to come to the surface, allowed herself to think about them. After a few minutes she sat down again. The cup had been emptied. Narayil had not left his place for the entire time. If there was something that made him uncomfortable or worried him, he did not show it.
As the door opened, both elves turned their heads. The lady had expected the old man to come back, but found herself facing a guard and a cloaked man instead. The man looked odd, pale, his hands barely more than bones with a bit of skin on them. She could not see his face, but she had the impression that he was old. He looked almost dead. She had seen similar people before. Some had been necromancers, others had been involved in questionable acitivites, and a few had been harmless. She knew that this one was not to be underestimated, but she would not draw any conclusions from his appearance alone.
She arched an eyebrow as he spoke. Surprise was visible on her face. “You knew him then?” she asked.
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