[i]Valerna Jorgenskull.[/i] She may say the name a dozen times over but it meant little and less to him. It was piss in the wind. [i]If a bit uncanny in resemblance.[/i] Valerna. Veron. Jorgenskull. Blacktear. ‘Jorgen’ might very well be some foreign term for ‘mountain’ while ‘Blacktear’ was a compound noun anyhow. Then again…in whatever tongue emitted between them, as permitted in this dungeon of an environment, was there even a V in ‘Valerna’ or ‘Veron’? Were there even letters and words in this universe?

Whatever the answer, she had disappointingly missed the point. Maybe it was the fault of his own voice. He hadn’t asked for a name she had already given him. He had asked for a [i]name[/i]. To some, a person’s name was inseparable from their title, or reputation in a certain definition, to the extent that ‘who’ amalgamated with ‘what’. 

Veron Blacktear, whoever he is, whatever he was, he is/was King of Nesthome. That’s what he was. That’s who he was. [i]Who I am… Who am I..?[/i] If his own inner monologue could not satisfy his blighted mind with an answer, how could she? It didn’t matter whether the spider could read the rat’s mind. His thoughts were his own, as were the letters and words written on paper, scrawled on parchment, inscribed on bark, etched in stone. Spoken between lips of man and woman.

Truly, he did indeed consider his query to be an enthralling inquiry; for she had already enthralled him, but not as a queen so much as a beast. A thing. A painting, in a manner of speaking. She might hiss, her tongue more serpentine than arachnid, and she might become his, if he could only remember his powers within…well…whatever this domain is. It was not his. His demesne was…was…abandoned… [i]Forsaken. Forgotten.[/i]

Yet they had as much in agreement as they had in opposition. Who and what they were apparently held no bearing over this place they were in. The imprints of their existence were like rat droppings in a pit, or dusted cobwebs in a corner. They existed on the borders of this universe. Either could only bore each other with their history.

Truly, what did ego matter in a forest where trees stood taller than either rat or spider? For this was no mere forest. It was alien if they were ancient. Even a king could lose the weight of his crown whether he still wore it. There was a difference. Her challenge to him, however, whether it would go unpunished, was permitted. No, not just. It was [i]relished[/i].

So, if she had or hadn’t detected the sarcasm in his tone, if she had a crown or coronet of her own, if she was a queen of her species, or some sorry outcast with a broken past, he at least knew he was a king. To cling to his forsaken kingdom, on the other hand, would make him…what, exactly?

[i]Fat. Meat. Bone.[/i] It didn’t take much of a predator to relate to the notion. He smelled blood in the air, and maybe it was her share, or another creature’s, but Veron Blacktear had yet to feast. He had yet to chew the fat, to suck the blood, to gnaw the bone. Having ferried with gnoll and dwarf, elf and lizard, and others, in his own voyages, he had plundered wonders, fed creatures to each other, and tasted flesh and blood beyond imagination, but never…[i]spider…[/i]

[color=8493ca]“A king is a ruler of a kingdom; the sovereign of a realm,”[/color] began his answer. His gaze never wavered from her. He digested her words, even if he might not address every letter that spilled from in between her lips. He expected no different with him. [color=8493ca]“Though I have met mighty kings and petty kings. I am, or was, King of Nesthome, a realm that was mine own.”[/color]

It was his turn to pause, not to scratch the itch beneath his patch, but to observe her fangs, and wonder. His thoughts? They needed no monologue. [color=8493ca]“We, however, are nowhere near Nesthome.”[/color] He could sense it as surely as the scent of her presence. This place was…different…to put it mildly.

[color=8493ca]“The world I hail from was known as Valucre. It was born. It became no more. I found a way out from the collapse, a means to survive beyond the bounds of its reality, and here I am, with one good eye and two good hands.”[/color] But he did not bow. He just bared his own teeth, sharp and preserved as they should be; and judge his not by familiarity of any Order of Rodentia, for the Verm are vermin different, and the Veshkei superior. 

[color=8493ca]“As to whatever lurks beyond these woods, well…”[/color] For the first time in moments, Veron took his eyes off her. His singular gaze roamed the wood, observed the squirrel climbing up the bark, the spider dangling from the branch, the bird perched in the canopy, the fox-like thing in the distance. [color=8493ca]“Perhaps we can discover that together.”[/color] His gaze turned back to her.