Surlily

The young woman eyes you up warily as you sit next to her, slightly shifting in her chair. “Names Dew” she says, watching you like you’re going to pounce on her.

“Alfred” you reply, holding up your hand to offer a handshake, doing your best to give a warm smile. Dew still looks somewhat suspicious of you, but she takes your offer. Her smooth, graceful hand feels wonderful within yours, but you keep the handshake brief.

“Food’s ready!” comes the cheery announcement of the older drow. She pours out healthy portions of the same soup you drank earlier, handing out three bowls to you, Dew and herself. The dish smells divine, and you feel somewhat embarrassed about taking advantage of such hospitality from complete strangers.

“Pardon me” you say as she hands you your bowl, “but I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“It’s Xana. Xana Breezewalker” comes her reply, “and what may be yours, fair guest?”

“Alfred Creathwine” you say, and she rolls over the name in her mouth.

“Alfred, Alfred… Ah! Elf-Wisdom” she declares triumphantly, “what a fitting name for the company you find yourself in, might I say.”

“Indeed” you concur, somewhat impressed that she knew the meaning of your name, though you suppose as an elf she would find it more obvious. In any case, your attention is now focused on the delicious aroma of the soup.

It’s mostly a quiet breakfast, though you occasionally praise Xana’s cooking, which you soon discover is a surefire way to make her blush. Dew remains totally silent throughout the meal, occasionally shooting you a dirty look, though it doesn’t spoil your mood.

Xana finishes her meal first, which surprises you as she was definitely eating the slowest. She must have poured herself a smaller portion. Instead of leaving the table, however, she fidgets nervously, looking in your direction. Eventually, she speaks up.

“May I have permission to leave the table, honoured guest?”

You give a confused nod, not sure why she’s asking. “It’s your own house, why are you asking me?”

Xana simply gives you an odd look. “You’re an honoured guest” she states, as if it's completely obvious, “it would be the height of rudeness to leave without asking your permission.”

Well, you wouldn’t exactly describe yourself as ‘honoured’, but whatever. “You may leave.” you say, granting her permission.

Suddenly, you hear the scraping of a chair to your right, as Dew gets up. “I’m not asking permission to leave the table from a vagabond!” she exclaims, storming away from the table in a huff. Xana watches her daughter, an annoyed look in her eyes.