#felandcris

Some may have thought the savage work of fighting the Otherworld was beneath a priestess, but Sinbyrn enjoyed the work. A sword went dull and impotent without fresh blood, and she understood the sentiment. She refused to become like the elders of the priesthood, content to play with shadows behind closed doors. Sinbyrn would always accept opportunities to lead a unit of warriors into the dark, however she'd continuously long for footsoldiers who were more of her caliber. "It was a successful campaign. Beasts nearest the Underdark were all dispatched. I was thorough and expect that our borders will have a short time of reprieve before more beasts return," Sinbyrn reports to the triumvir with measured tact instead of true reverence. In her eyes, she had nothing to answer to him for but maintained a respectful demeanor as well. "Once I again, I insist only capable warriors to be assigned to the units I lead. I have no patience for weak links." Unsurprisingly, the only casualties she had to report were males just as the last three times she ventured out. She had nothing to say on this burgeoning trend of hers.

“If I do recall correctly, your name is Fergalicious, right?” Andruil feigns deep thought as she settles against a tree that provides her a perfect view of the drow prince perching like a little bird. Then she snaps her fingers in mock shame and smirks at the man. She is being beyond reckless, truly, but her grudge against the members of the royal court is too strong to allow the opportunity for some light mocking pass when she knows the individual’s name. Additionally, training with the fey had reminded her that she needed her own practice, and she is sure the sorcerer before her has enough creativity to give her a work out. She would be rather disappointed otherwise. “Right, no, I got it wrong, it was Felandaris, wasn’t it?”