"Sit here, Caliburn," Morgan beckoned, tapping the space on the edge of the bed beside her.
Ah, Morgan's humble abode, fit for royalty—or not. With its cozy confines and utilitarian furnishings, it was a wonder how she managed to host esteed guests such as Elves. One table, two chairs, and a bed doubling as seating—truly a throne room fit for a queen.
As Burn was about to take one step into the tent, he suddenly heard Morgan effortlessly weaving her words in Elven tongue, her voice a srizing lody of enchantnt and grace. The guests, of course, responding in perfect harmony—
Realizing he was missing out on this riveting linguistic spectacle, Burn swiftly about-faced and summoned Landevale, who was conveniently loitering nearby unoccupied.
She imdiately responded, “Yes, sir?”
"Fetch the box beneath my bed. Chop-chop," Burn urged.
He imdiately darted back into the tent, eagerly taking his designated spot as instructed by Morgan. He sat there, trying to read the atmosphere between the blonde haired witch and the two, seemingly high ranked, Elves.
"Mír shí eth. Thé losstil ravélin Caliburn Pendragon," Morgan said in Elven, her voice lodic like a whispering breeze through ancient trees, her hand slithered to grasp Burn’s left hand on his lap.
"Narín dalasai," one of the elves replied, the words flowing with a hint of curiosity. They inquired, "Eth galarien amin haryat eth lalath lamin?"
"Elad eth lá. Min nótima sí i'óla," Morgan responded, her tone gentle but firm, ending the chit-chat with a certain finality.
As the words danced in the air, Burn observed the two Elves before him. They might as well have been mirror images, resembling a pair of overly eager siblings separated at birth.
From their matching pale blonde locks to their matching erald gazes, and let's not forget their charmingly synchronized expressions and quirks.
It was almost comical how one mimicked the other's every move; one could almost mistake them for a well-rehearsed theatrical act. Ah, the wonders of kinship or perhaps just a case of copy-and-paste by nature herself.
If they had been any more identical, they might have rged into one being by sheer force of habit.
"This is Rekre and Yukre Er. Rekre, the father, and Yukre, the son. They hail from the royal lineage of the Elves," Morgan presented them to Burn, who imdiately raised his eyebrows.
Well, of course, they are father and son. They share that tiless elvish charm that makes it a tad hard to tell their age—he almost thought they were twins.
A timid voice quivered from outside the tent, "Y-Your Majesty…"
It was Landevale, clutching the box Burn had requested. The young lady couldn't help but wonder why Burn needed it, imagining a romantic gift for his newfound love interest. Her curiosity had been piqued after all, evident from her lingering presence near the tent previously.
As Burn prepared to invite her in, Morgan swiftly intervened, cautioning him, "No one in this camp is aware of Rekre and Yukre. I snuck them in."
"This is Landevale. She has pledged her loyalty to ," Burn reassured her, with a nod from Morgan validating his words. Giving a signal, Burn beckoned the female knight to enter, "Co in, Landevale."
As Landevale stepped in, her blush drained from her face, leaving her looking like a startled rabbit. To her surprise, there were not one, but two Elves present in this rather unassuming tent!
“Landevale,” Burn’s voice broke through her shock, coaxing her to hand him the box. Despite her initial bewildernt, she quickly regained her composure upon seeing Burn disentangle his hand from Morgan’s grasp to receive the box.
"Kór shal sineth. Eth érsha mír drósí kal shaín belóreí," Morgan's words flowed smoothly, assuring the elves that Landevale was no cause for concern.
Burn opened the box, revealing a mishmash of tools, stationery, and everyday essentials. Among the assortnt, he found a small futuristic gadget and pressed the button in the center, instructing Morgan to "Say sothing in Elvish."
“Eth… mélem?” Morgan questioned, her tone laced with curiosity.
Burn donned the other device on his ear, arching an eyebrow in surprise as it seed the elusive Elvish language had been cataloged in the central system.
It was a ho version of the translation device he had purchased from the outsiders. Discovering that the language had already been preloaded, Burn couldn't help but feel a twinge of irony.
Even the most reclusive race in Netherre, the Elves, had apparently crossed paths with these outsiders.
After making a few adjustnts, Burn handed the box back to Landevale, who suddenly grasped the depth of her misunderstandings. He translated his words into Elven tongue.
"Please, speak. I can comprehend you now," Burn stated, the device spoke on behalf of him.
The elves exchanged concerned glances. Rekre piped up, "This is a contraption from the outsiders, correct? Aren't you worried about it being compromised?"
The words were being translated well.
"Don't fret. I had the traitors of the outsiders inspect them, and it appears there's no issue," Burn reassured them. Indeed, he had tasked Dirk's tech lackeys with scrutinizing all significant devices from the outsiders, ensuring no leaks of information occurred.
Despite being linked to the central system, the AI in charge was designed solely for dishing out language services.
Sure, it could have had the capability to eavesdrop, but Dirk, the experienced rcenary, lent his expertise to Burn, concocting a clever cocktail of signal addresses to maintain anonymity and keep prying eyes at bay.
It was the usual basic operational requirents for rcenaries like them after all.
“Then, I will trust you,” Rekre said.
“I appreciate it,” Burn nodded.
Burn wasn't exactly thrilled about being on the bad side of the non-human communities. Dealing with beings who could outlast his race was like playing a never-ending ga of catch-up from birth, with them being stronger than he was in this age before he was even born.
So, he was being more careful around them, always mindful not to step on any immortal toes.
And hey, keeping them on friendly terms was a no-brainer—those supernatural folks had stash of goodies that put human resources to sha.
Thus, why pick a fight with Vlad when you could potentially team up for so mythical benefits? Burn wasn't that dense.
As for duking it out with any non-human races, well, let's just say Burn wasn't eager to enroll in a disadvantageous battle. Even if he managed a victory, what's the prize? Probably just a headache and no golden ticket.
Sa old story with those pointy-eared troublemakers.
In a world where each move could an eternal consequences, Burn figured it’s best to steer clear of unnecessary drama with creatures who had more millennia under their belt than he had brain cells.
Who needs enemies when you've got centuries-old beings with a knack for holding grudges? Not Burn, that's for sure.
Thus why, even in the previous loops, Burn dodged showdowns with them until the eleventh hour. If not for those magical roadblocks, he could've conquered Inkia quicker than a squirrel on a nut hunt. Them, added with the likes of Wintersin and Inkia’s deck stacked with surprises.
So, he actually already knew what they were about to say today—the reasons they had for being vigilant with him from the start and how Inkia blew over the fla of discord between them—
"We are shocked that Her Holiness has apparently found her mate. Congratulations on your union," Rekre suddenly announced, tossing Burn's expectations straight out the window and into the realm of pure disbelief.
Burn, utterly flabbergasted, slowly turned to Morgan, who smiled.
Rekre and Yukre respectfully bowed, expressing, "After centuries of anticipation, we're thrilled to witness your long-awaited happily ever after, Your Holiness."
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