“Serale, you there, serale, good man!” the sorcerer called out to his chosen victim, with a raised hand of greeting as he tramped over the ground towards the young man who was doing something with a bucket. Manyc’s nose wrinkled at the stench of the fish guts, but there was little he could do about that, just as there was little he could do about the hem of his robes as they came into contact with the muddy ground. All in a good cause though, he thought to himself, still rather tickled at the thought of bringing this particular specimen to the Regent.
“A moment of your time, sir?” he intoned in his deep and resonating voice, once he had the young fisherman’s attention.
“If you’d indulge me, sir, for interrupting your hard work? ‘tis a matter of imperial importance.” Bowing his head briefly, the older man slipped out from the sleeve of his dark robes a scroll of parchment tied with a black ribbon and bearing the Imperial seal. If the young man was willing to accept the scroll, it would be offered to him to read.
“I am Manyc Úlairi, as named within the invitation,” he continued while allowing the young man to peruse the document if it had been accepted, and then fell silent so allowing the words to be absorbed. And then when a visible cue was given that such a reading was complete, the sorcerer looked with his dark and rather forbidding eyes at the chap.
“If you are willing to accept this invitation, sir, may I have your name before we proceed?”
Of course, there may be questions. Questions were expected, if only from the experience of having to convince a previous invitee that she wasn’t about to be kidnapped and sold into slavery to foreign lands. Therefore he waited with a formal and somewhat awkward air for the human’s response.