Madam Kaslini Yervaan
She was perhaps in her early forties, lacking beauty. A thin rimmed eyeglass sat upon her nose bridge, her hair in a high bun with flower petals in it. Long, gold earrings draped her ears almost touching her shoulders. She was reading a book, Valstohl’s father’s notebook on ancient tribal martial arts, the one he had kept close to his body. Fragrance of night flowers exuded from her; it gave her an essence of freshness like a garden after the rains.
“Honorable sir you are welcome in my residence. How may I address you sir?” she spoke in proper Llehstanzi. Her voice was gentle and soft. She took off her eyeglass and closed the book placing it on the table with a feather to mark the page where she was reading. There was elegance in the way she moved her arms and fingers, even in the way her gaze changed angles and directions, nothing was abrupt, almost as if it was choreographed, like a dancer. It appealed to Gulaan.
“Thank you, Madam, I believe I owe my life to you…I am Gulaan Dasmire” he responded in Llehstanzi and tried to sit up, but she stopped him.
“You are not dressed sir, and while you owe your survival to your own gods and goddesses, I hold myself accountable for as long as you are under my care” she then leaned forward as if to share a secret.
“Though I am accustomed to receiving guests who arrive without cadavers and whom I do not have to undress out of bloody clothes” she said humorously with her palm shielding her mouth as though she was whispering to a child.