6

As the King gestures you forward, you make your finest bow to each Royal in turn. "Awaigen Certeil ic Motin Verteil," you say in Old Brenteel. "Hail to the stewards of celestial virtue in Man's domain." King Saul blinks, and his face softens more than you've ever seen in person. "Now there's a turn of phrase I've scarcely heard within these august halls for full a dozen years."

You can tell the King is pleased with your esoteric knowledge of courtly greetings—for your part, you're just delighted that you didn't botch it. [+Saul] [+Surety] You see Prinxe Hail's eyes rolling, however; apparently the Heir has much less patience for deep bows and dead languages. [-Hail]

Onward