Occupation: faithful servant
Rough description: essentially a walking rat, about 4’ tall, jet black fur, long, thick tail; a little scrawny for her kind
Scinta is a druva of the rathim clan, called demihumans or beastmen by people who want to be insulting about it. Her clan, despite their spread to almost every corner of the continent, is known to boast proudly that they are the faithful servants of the drakken clan, even though that clan is said to be basically extinct. Scinta’s parents were among the most faithful, and raised her in the ways of the drakken court, though she works in the kitchen of a noble human household in the capitol.
The slender druva flicked her tail, keeping her eyes on the meat she had cooking, even when the tiny child dove into her skirts and clung there. When she had turned the steak over, she reached down to brush one clawed hand gently against the girl’s hair.
“Good evening, little mistress,” she said, finally looking down to find the child’s dark-eyed face turned up toward her. “Do your parents know you’re visiting?”
She made a face, all the answer she needed to give.
“Mm, I think they’ll miss you before too long.”
Another face, though this time she glanced over her shoulder. “I want a story,” she said, finally looking back.
“I find that is often why you come to me.” She smiled and turned back to the meat, glancing sideways at a pot of stew, mostly vegetables, that was bubbling nearby. The master liked his meat just so, and the mistress didn’t like meat at all. It was a wonder they ate at the same table.
“I want to know about the drakkies.”
“Drakken,” Scinta corrected her, and her tail twitched quite of its own accord. “Your mother has told me quite firmly I’m not to speak of them to you, little mistress.”
“I won’t tell,” was the earnest response, but the druva nevertheless was silent for a moment.
“Elitha,” she called. “The master’s steak is ready. Will you take it to him?”
“Yes, yes.” An older woman, human, as was much of the household, came around the corner, blinking when she saw the daughter of the house with a handful of skirt still clenched in her small fist. “And should I tell him of the little mistress’ disposition?”
Scinta chuckled, transferring the slab of meat to a plate and letting Elitha sweep it from the counter. “No … as long as she’s at the table for the main meal, I think he will be satisfied.”
With that, the woman was gone, and Scinta bent to scoop the girl up in her arms, resting her against her hip as she stirred the stew. “Is that a solemn promise, little mistress? Your mother will hear no word of the drakken?”
Scinta smiled. As little as she felt the drakken were still about somewhere in the world, it was difficult to resist speaking of them. The lore passed down from her parents flowed in her blood.
“Then let me tell you,” she began, “of Tarwan Rekketh and the silver pearl.”