Lion Head Mesa basium

last from me as well!

That is the Queen?
Wren's lips part in an 'o' of shock. She is chipper, pleasant, well-spoken; and young. Very young. When she glances to Akavir, she's sure he's thinking the same thing.
This may as well have been Snow White; dwarves surrounding her, songbirds atop her shoulders.
I'm, uh, oh, God, fake name, fake name, fake name! Swan. Bella. Swan Bella. This big guy here is my... friend. She points to Akavir with a nervous gesture of a paw. We're neighbors of Mr. Imperator.
The young Queen gives Akavir a look as if she had never seen a man before in her life. As if Wren could not see it. As if Wren did not, also, have eyes. This earns a throaty, disgruntled laugh, and discreetly, she presses her shoulder to the Mayfair's flank. She makes a mental note that if this teenager were to try anything — or if Akavir were to be so weak as to oblige — they would both get a firm slap to the back of the head.
She nods at the offer of refreshments, the strange word of fellahin cold as it hits her ears. This was already bizarre, almost too bizarre for her liking — but she was here with a purpose. She was here to be a Gamma, a friend, an ambassador, a sleuth.
And this is something she reminds herself of as she follows behind the two Valley men.