Dragons of a Scale
57th of Glade, 124th Year of the Age of Steel
The network of Rift Gates that had unbound their original empire were gone, but the elves were still masters of translocation. Especially for the powerful, travel was no undue strain. As such, Princess Akantha's attendance at Prince Skärlon's nameday party was expected. All she had to do was walk through a portal. So long as she wasn't wearing a pair of her ballet boots, she ought to be fine.
Any event that brought the entirety of the Court of Princes together was well-guarded, magically and otherwise, and attracted the wealthy and the powerful like moths to a flame. Skärlon's court was spartan compared to that of the royal capital, but that was befitting the duties of his family.
Akantha was in all things fashionable, and that evening, she was fashionably late. Barely into her rounds, she noticed her father speaking rather animatedly—for him—with Prince Salmakis Val'Mystra and some lucky woman who had managed to engage two princes regnant in a private conversation. The woman's back was to the princess, and so she could only admire the cut of her dress, which clung to her body in a way that made the most of few curves.
She caught her father's eye and his green eyes flashed with new pleasure as he raised a hand to beckon her over. As she approached, she felt a keening against her arcane senses, which she would recognize as the signature of an artefact used to preserve the identity in a myriad of ways. When she strode into its field, she saw why: from the woman's back sprouted white wings, their golden patina gilt with platinum paint to match what she now saw was a dress made of the most delicate scale mail. It looked almost as if it were fashioned from mithril, but even Akantha wouldn't dare ask for so queenly a gift upon her nameday.
A fellow flesh-worker, then. Wings weren't terribly difficult to fashion once one had attuned to birds, though the amount of reworking of the musculature of the chest and back, the ridiculous wingspan required for flight made it less common than one might imagine. She was a tiny thing, too. But her clever work made her look almost like a diminutive Avialae woman if such a thing existed.
As the woman turned Akantha's eyes were drawn to the delicate scale mail cowl, fringed with a sort of veil made of stylized blades. One would hope they weren't sharp, glittering as they were before pale blue eyes. The woman bowed to Akantha, while Akantha's father merely cleared his throat meaningfully. He needn't have bothered, of course. Salmakis was a Maker and had also been beguiled by the misleading simplicity of her party attire.
But Ailuin wasn't going to introduce her until Akantha had greeted the king and prince who outranked the strange woman.