the bard's last note

He was not left waiting long, and soon enough there was a hulking figure filling the doorway. The scent of meat caught his nares immediately, and his stomach lurched in a mixture of hunger and sickness. Bile heaved itself into his esophagus, his gut wrenched by the promise of real food. The gentle susurrating of fabric against stone promised something soft to lay upon, and soon Basilisk dropped food at his feet. Instructed him to eat. Could he even do that anymore? "T- thank you, sir." Surviving on his rations had tightened his stomach, and though he couldn't help the droplets of saliva that collected at the corners of his maw, the rational portion of his brain bade him be cautious. Could it be laced with sedatives? Perhaps poisoned in some way? Even if it wasn't, eating all of it at once would make him sick almost immediately. He lowered his skull cautiously, the very action shaky and unsteady as the muscles of his slender neck strained. The scent was clean as could be, he knew his poisons well enough to be able to detect traces in his meals. So he nibbled gently at the offered meal, letting tiny morsels slide over his tongue and into his stomach. He forced himself to stop quickly, in time to watch someone else enter the room. She carried his bag, and he resisted the urge to reach for it.

The way she settled so close beside Basilisk spoke to their ties, and her bulky figure in the low light was enough to dissuade him from any notions of testing his luck. Not that he could, by now. His strength was all but gone after that trek. She spoke to his past, and did so with remarkable insight. Instinctively his hackles bristled, and he had to force himself to withhold any emotion. Giving himself away would be certain death, if not now then later. Young highborn lady? He wasn't certain where she'd pulled that from, other than perhaps the little shards of sentimentality that had been pilfered from the boundaries of the kingdom within the bag. When the pale queen demanded to know who he was, it was difficult to withhold his proper titles. The act of divulging his family name was so reflexive, ingrained into his marrow for as long as he could remember. Instead, "Pluto, my lady. I am from the west- a scrubland desert." he stumbled a little, heavy tongue once again tripping over the simplest of syllables. Achingly slowly, he turned his skull to better fix his gaze upon her. He could see little more than the outline of her form, the variations of hue across her body.

"speaking" -- "in another language"