Dahozhoni Meadow guillemot

The fog began to filter away from them as their body heats commingled. Vortigern angled an ear towards the grayscale waif, her impish, almost child-like voice greeting him once more over a scythe of a grin. What she said next was highly unorthodox.

A summer palace implied a kingdom – Akashingo, she’d said – and there was to be a crowning event, open to all who wished to bear witness, even to the loneliest of faces in the lowliest of places. The heretic was intrigued.

I do like ceremonies, he acquiesced. He saw no harm in humoring this darkling, not while those ghostlamp eyes of hers begged him so. Tell me all that you can, messenger.