As is the way of servants, the man extracted himself from the room expertly, quiet and unobtrusive, as another knock announced an arrival. This one quick and sharp, with a full row of knuckles behind it. A moment passed. Enough time for an exchange of words and, perhaps, even a pleasantry or two, but then the servant reappeared.
A half step behind him, the newcomer waited.
Lotl found himself shepherded into the room with a gesture. The servant, discomforted, then excused himself once more. His unease hid itself behind a carefully constructed air of indifference, but Lotl saw it—felt it, even. Not through a natural gift, but as a symptom of the city’s sickness. An infection untreated. One that would never be treated willingly. Lotl, whose nature and existence was fluid, found himself being pulled along an unrelenting current, as inevitable as that of the river that wound its way through the city.
An elemental after a certain persuasion, Lotl’s body sought to conform to the dominant elements, and, where his passage through the nearby mountains left him with an unyielding black stone for flesh and a strength to match, it was now an ashen brown, mottled green, with the look and feel of tree bark about it. And in exchange for his strength…
Melancholy wafted through the room, drawing Lotl’s eye to the sole other occupant. Other emotions boiled around him, not those of the woman’s, but past things felt and memories made, ingrained in the fabric of not just the lounge but in the land the lounge had been built upon, long before there was a Mr. Torguen and his estate.
Lotl inclined his head and introduced himself. His tongue moved clumsy and dull, and his voice came as a barely human rasp. Wind through some oak's old hollow. Lotl slinked over to a nearby seat, its cushion too plush for his tastes to be comfortable, and sat, neatly folding his hands in his lap.