> Nur um poken

>

> Phrase

>

> Translation: Just a little bit

>

> Definition: "Nur um poken" is a concise phrase used to request or indicate a small amount. The phrase is often used in everyday situations where only a slight degree or quantity is needed, reflecting the practicality and straightforwardness valued in Menschen interactions.

Mediah wove his way back through the lively, bustling banquet, the air thick with merriment, loud laughter, savoury grease and too much ale.

It was a stark contrast between the spirited halls and the turmoil churning within him, almost agonising. As he navigated through the crowd, he debated internally whether to reclaim his seat next to Zvoya or simply leave the festivities. No one would notice him leaving.

However, the biting cold outside and the prospect of free food ultimately swayed his decision, and he didn't believe he would be welcome back into the brothel for another night.

Upon his return, Zvoya observed him closely with her sharp, dark eyes and elven senses as he settled back into his seat beside her. Her gaze methodically inspected him, moving from his head to his toes and back again as if she were trying to read a story etched in his movements and expressions.

"I take it your conversation didn't unfold as you had hoped," she commented.

Mediah let out a long, weary sigh, the weight of his conversation with Ulencia still troubling him. "No, it didn't go well," he confessed, avoiding Zvoya's penetrating gaze. His attention drifted to a piece of bread in front of him, which he absentmindedly started to shred, his fingers working almost mechanically to reduce it to crumbs.

Seeking to lighten the mood and perhaps offer a distraction from his woes, Zvoya playfully prodded him. "You know, chasing after a married woman is rarely a wise move," she remarked with a hint of teasing in her voice. "There are plenty of single ladies around who wouldn't mind sharing a bed, or perhaps even something else, somewhere else…. it's a matter of will and improvisation, I guess."

"I suppose there are," he muttered, his mind clearly elsewhere, and he was not in the mood to respond to her clear advances.

Zvoya added more seriously, "Praying and hoping for unrequited love is never a good idea, darling. It only leads to heartache."

"I guess does," he replied, but the words were simply devoided, laden instead with a shadow of defeat that seemed to cling to him. But ultimately, it was Ulencia's choice. What else could he do?

Zvoya could see the extent of his inner struggle by the lines etched on his forehead. "These feelings, they'll eventually fade away. They say time heals all wounds though I do wonder if that's truly the case... Carrying a broken heart is a heavy burden, isn't it?"

"I suppose... I think I'm just grappling with the fallout of my own choices. I'm just here wondering if there is something I could have done or said differently," Mediah replied; he managed a weak chuckle, a faint attempt to ease himself.

Zvoya's hand gently rested on his knee, a not-so-subtle gesture of comfort. "If it's any consolation, she's in capable hands," she offered reassuringly, her touch lingering with empathy and something more suggestive as it gradually moved up to the warmth of his thigh, offering a silent promise of solace and perhaps something much less wordy.

Her gesture was a delicate, soothing touch and a very clear invitation, an understanding that sometimes a warm bed with messy sheets could offer a temporary effective concoction from heartaches and other psych affairs. But it wasn’t working, the smell was—the smell.

Mediah's gaze sharpened as he focused on Zvoya, "Is she, though? She seemed far from alright when I saw her."

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Zvoya, unperturbed by his accusation, nodded with a nonchalant ease. "She's carrying a child, and these recent moons have been incredibly challenging for her. Once the baby arrives, I expect things will start to stabilise. Right now, she needs to rest more than anything else. I've even suggested to King Xendrix that he should allow her to skip these festivities to avoid further strain."

Mediah's brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "I thought you were a Mortician," he pointed out, puzzled by her detailed knowledge of Ulencia's condition and Xendrix's mention. She knew much more than she was conceding.

Zvoya's response was accompanied by a slight, knowing smile, "I never specifically said I was a mortician. I merely mentioned that I occasionally tend to the dead," she clarified. "My duties at the castle are quite varied, especially since King Ieagan fell ill."

"Ieagan is alive?" Mediah's surprise was evident, mingled with confusion at this unexpected piece of information, "I thought he was dead."

"He is," Zvoya affirmed, her expression revealing nothing further. She delivered the statement with a certainty that left Mediah wondering which of her words were the whole truth. Was he alive, or was he dead? Or was he both?

Her adeptness at navigating the conversation without revealing too much was an art.

Mediah's attention was momentarily arrested, his hand with the piece of bread hanging in mid-air as he digested Zvoya's words. "So, you work closely with Xendrix?" he asked, his eyes meticulously scrutinising her face for any hint of falsehood or deflection. "You're an assistant of some sort?"

Zvoya maintained steady eye contact, her expression a masterful tapestry of sincerity interwoven with possible deception. "In a manner of speaking, yes... though not as intimately involved as I might like. A girl is allowed to her dreams and fantasies," she replied with a hint of playfulness as her fingers coaxed his fly pants.

"So, it's Xendrix who broke your heart?" Mediah asked flat.

In response, Zvoya subtly withdrew her hand from his pants.

"The King is rather elusive... but in his own way, he does find moments for those within his court." Her voice carried a note of ambiguity, leaving Mediah to wonder about the true nature of her relationship with the King. She seemed too well-educated to be a simple courtesan.

"And you? Does he make time for you?" He asked, aimed at catching her off guard.

Zvoya answered with a nonchalant shrug, "When he can, of course. He's the King, after all. A King does what a King wants."

"Is that right?"

"Do you disagree?"

Mediah responded with a casual shrug. "Honestly, I haven't spent much time with him. I tried to teach him some magical principles once or twice, but it turned out to be rather futile."

"Really?" Zvoya's expression showed genuine surprise. "That's hard to believe."

"You think so?"

"Yes, he's quite masterful in the arcane arts. It's hard to picture him struggling with magic."

Mediah nodded, a look of realisation crossing his face. "I was as taken aback as you are. Initially, I didn't think he'd get the hang of it. But Noctavia, she has an approach to magic that's quite unconventional," he elaborated.

"She sounds remarkable," Zvoya commented, clearly intrigued by the mention of the word Noctavia.

"More than that, she's extraordinary," Mediah agreed. "A true Master."

"So, her real name, and correct me if I'm wrong, but it isn't Noctavia, is it?" Zvoya probed, a sly edge to her question, "That would be a strange name for a girl to carry."

Mediah looked at her, visibly surprised. "You know Menschen?"

"Nur um poken," she replied with a smirk, maintaining her steady gaze on him. Her playful response left him momentarily off guard.

His eyes darted around the room, a sudden unease creeping over him. Something felt off, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. His gaze settled on the grand wooden stage set up behind King Xendrix's table. It was unusually large and imposing, almost as if the guests were anticipating some significant event, not just a mere celebration of the King's coronation.

Then there was the smell... a distinct, unmistakable odour that permeated the air. It smelled like rotten cabbage.

What did Ulencia try to warn him from?

> I recount living in complete darkness until my adulthood. For twenty-two winters, our world was devoid of any moonlight, sunlight, or starlight. During that time, numerous theories and prophecies emerged to explain this phenomenon. Many were rooted in religion - elves spoke of their Green Mother, humans came in with their Holy Mother, Orcs, dwarfs, I don't know, they all believed in something greater than themselves playing with the skies. Even the Menschen blamed The Howling Night, believing he had engulfed the sky as punishment. Today, however, explanations are grounded in science, supported by facts, evidence, and the ability to replicate events to validate theories. I have attended many scientific conventions where such topics were hotly debated. The theories ranged from planetary shadows and black holes to the emergence of a dense new atmosphere engulfing all light coming from outer space. These discussions were fun at first, but now, by the end, I often wished I could reveal the truth, which was much simpler. It is so much simpler. Yet, I held back because revealing it would render all my efforts and sacrifices futile. My silence was and still is a choice to protect the larger narrative and the work I had dedicated my life to. I want to meet my daughter. That is all I want, to hold my little girl in my arms. ——The Hexe - Book One by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, Special Edition, 555th Summer