#{mikoto.}

Mikoto

     She has never been the sort to have friends, let alone know how to go about speaking to other individuals. Within temple walls, all the woman had were her retainers and a select few; in Plegian villages, only the strangers courageous enough to approach one who would insist on keeping her face hidden; in Ylisse, not a soul but her own child. So when the Summoner heard of the mother’s plight-- of the Grimleal and her husband--, perhaps it was unsurprising that their insistence on speaking with another similar to herself frightened Naeva terribly.       Even if the idea, in itself, appealed greatly to her bleeding heart, which has long kept itself bottling up so much pain and misery.

     The sage stands, staff grasped in one hand, and the other subtly fiddling with her dress beneath red and gold robes. The worst that could happen is that the other woman has no interest in speaking with her-- Naeva knows this and yet, that does not stop her stomach from churning in a most unpleasant way. This is a chance to introduce herself to someone else close to her age, yes, but one that she might be able to understand, and in turn be just as understood by. Thus, as the mother’s first words escape from dark red lips, her throat tightens, and she can practically feel her heart beginning to race.

          “...I assume you must be Queen Mikoto?”

     She keeps a calm facade, never deviating from the graceful demeanour that had first been taught to the sage by her own mother. First impressions are everything, after all, and it would be horrifying to know that her only chance for closure and help were rejected from an utter lack of composure, or the showing of weakness. With a slight bow of her head, she continues.