A meeting with her councilors

Aluziira stared across the council chamber. The unsettling feeling of being sat at the head had quickly worn away as want for a Drow born to eventually rule. The chamber was pleasantly appointed, though smaller than the one in their manse. Soft witchlight lanterns floated near the vaulted ceiling, their violet glow pooling across polished obsidian tiles and casting long, wavering shadows behind every chair. Mother had hoped it would never be used, alas… She ruminated. The air carried the faint mineral chill of deep stone, laced with the bitter perfume of subterranean fungi burning in the braziers.

Her remaining councilors had gathered. Sorndyn, displeased with sitting across the circular table from her, effortlessly carried his marble chair to her side. Not a grumble came from those **** to shuffle theirs over to be equidistant again. Without complaint, the others shifted their seats to restore the circle, settling into obedient silence. Eyes lowered. Spines straight. Witchlight glimmered faintly in the glossiness of their hair and the polish of their armor.

Aluziira’s hand moved over to Sorndyn's thigh, squeezing the furred bulk before drifting towards her main idle occupation. Slender fingers dug through his exquisitely groomed testicles. The dense fur was warm beneath her hand, a stark contrast to the cold stone armrest beneath her other fingers. A faint curl touched the corner of her lip; approval enough to satisfy him. Sorndyn drank it in like a starving beast devouring a rothé haunch.

Only part of her laugh was suppressed at the memory of walking in on the hulking monster, small brush in hand, following the ritual his consort had imposed on him. One hundred strokes of the brush, in both directions, for every square inch of those churning, dense orbs of maleness. She could still picture the ridiculous solemnity of it: the towering brute hunched beneath crystal light, brush whispering through fur like a priest performing sacred rites. The fond memory notwithstanding, she turned her attention back to the female and males before her.

To her right, as was his demand, sat Sorndyn, recently elevated to Patron of House Eilsana. To her left, as constant as breath, was Brinalla, now High Maid by virtue of their lifebond. Pale hair spilled down the handmaiden’s shoulders like molten silver, gleaming softly in the glowing light. Across the table, Rylraen and Hjuldek remained in their accustomed offices of Magnate and Overseer.

The tall, whip-thin Illaeli captain of her bodyguard, Chasdus, sat straightbacked. His silhouette was knife-sharp against the dark stone wall behind him, the edges of his armored robe reflecting faint glimmers of violet light. He was the strongest and most strategic of the remaining untapped psions. The position of Archpsion came easy.

He took the honour as he did anything else, with a stoicism that reminded her of Father. His meager **** of three House Psions were treated with the same respect as if it had been the full complement of fifty. Any other Drow would have balked at the prospect of them entirely being made up of foreigners. Not her.

Aluziira's gaze swept over the few empty chairs, their vacant backs like silent accusations circling the table, no one of exceptional talent had caught her attention yet to bear the strain of leadership. That is until she settled on a strikingly queer figure. Though not much taller than her, and not quite reaching the heights of Sorndyn, the well-built figure occupying one of the councilors' seats had scintillating sapphire wings. Folded, of course. Even tucked tight against his back, the crystalline membranes shimmered faintly, each scale reflecting the chamber’s low light like fragments of shattered gemstones.

Sao Girarth, as his name hinted, had come far away from Sschindrylryn. His home in the World Above, had supposedly been a massive empire stretching a thousand miles in any given direction from the capital. A boast, surely.

While Aluziira had seen various Dragonborn from the east before in her life, usually in the exotic section of the Auction House, none had borne wings upon their backs. Apparently, those descendants of the various Imperial Dynasties always fighting for the throne were granted a small measure of their progenitors' draconic might until too diluted to maintain such power. The remaining descendants made up the bulk of the supposed empire's aristocracy. Sao claimed his High Dragonborn lineage from the Azure One, a short-lived gem dynasty usurped a century past.

The wiry warrior had honed himself into a precise instrument of war, calling his discipline that of a Kensei. Gleaming glaive that never left his side, the focal point of his devotion. The weapon’s polished blade rested across his knees, its edge bright enough to catch the witchlight and cast thin bands of brilliance across the table. Mother never did specify what exactly happened to get Sao indebted to her, but Aluziira did know that the payment due was a sixty-six years of servitude. The ravages of time were slower for his people, so he readily agreed. Despite occasional discomfort with Sschindrylryn customs, Sao had risen steadily through the warrior ranks under her uncle. Reliable. Competent.

Good enough for a male, at least…

So, with her uncle and other male relatives having perished, Sao was the natural replacement for Weaponmaster of the house. The nominal commander of the diminished house warriors. Sao inclined his head, the movement sending a ripple like bursting stars through the facets of his scales, asking permission to speak. Aluziira flicked a finger on her left hand granting permission, the other busy fondling those fuzzy orbs.

“Matron Mother, having accounted for everyone, it seems we can draw upon twenty-four household soldiers as well as eighteen **** soldiers.” Aluziira knew her Mother did not tolerate the mediocre crop other houses used when it came to the slavering, unwashed horde of arrowfodder. Hobgoblins and orcs made up the disciplined core, the bugbears and minotaur were the concentrated hammer. In her mind’s eye she pictured them already: iron-shod boots stamping through cavern dust, crude banners swaying beneath stalactite shadows.

A polite cough from Rylraen allowed him to butt in, “Matron Mother, twenty servants and twenty-three slaves also have found themselves under your rule. I foresee little problems, other than a few of the house slaves getting… uppity at the new… conditions they find themselves in.”

Everyone heard the tightening grip of glove on handle. The creak of strained leather was loud in the otherwise still chamber. Hjuldek made his point.

Rylraen nodded his head once at the Overseer, placated for now. “I will do a thorough rechecking of everything in the inventory, Matron. My records have always been impeccable.” A faint stiffness crept into his voice. “But recent circumstances seem to have… complicated matters.” The mysteriously arrived amphorae and crates having put a crack in the Drow male’s porcelain ego. Somewhere beyond the chamber doors, the distant drip of cavern water echoed like one of those slow ticking clocks that served little purpose.