#zeefaring

“Three eighty,” says your secretary.

You stop what you’re doing, spin on your heel, and move at a brisk pace towards your palace, adjusting your crown with a tendril of hair. “What do we know?”

“A team of human miners near Whalebones,” she answers. “Seven in all. A local drow called it in five minutes ago, it seems there’s a language barrier.”

You’re… so relieved. Almost ecstatic. You’ve been waiting for this moment for how many centuries? Humans are perfect, too. You’ll be glad to have a chat with some of them before you deal with the elves. “A’ight. Have our people transport the humans here.”

There’s an uncertain pause. “Uh, it seems there are constables in the area? We could use a police carriage--”

“Fuck no. The humans are my personal guests. Contact the nearest noble, order ‘em to lend the humans their finest carriage. Then contact Ampora for passage ‘cross the Narrows, maybe toss in some river transport to speed up the journey. I’ll arrange for my personal carriage to pick ‘em up at the docks when they arrive. I want those humans here ‘s fast as physically possible.”

“Yes, your Condescension. Do you want me to keep you updated on their progress?”

“That oughtta go without saying.” One of the smaller doors to the palace grows closer before you. Your heels click against dark stone as your hair curls around the knob and pulls, and skirts rustle as you turn your attention to the spiral staircase that soars upwards, towards your quarters.

You remember a day, two thousand years ago, when you yourself climbed up out of the twisting caverns and felt the sun on your back. You remember how bright and warm the world above you was, and how you’re the only drow alive today who can say they’ve ever seen the sky-- but not for long. The waiting game is over.