Pladen led us to a small Elven town nestled amongst ancient trees. It was a place of gentle architecture and quiet beauty, a stark contrast to the ravaged lands we had traversed. He brought us to his home, a cozy dwelling built into the base of a giant oak. He instructed his wife to prepare a meal, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth.
The atmosphere during the meal was heavy with tension. Pladen's wife, a slender Elf with worried eyes, couldn't hide her unease. She kept glancing at me, clad in my golden armor, my helmet still firmly in place. She then questioned Pladen, "Why is there a human eating at the same table as us? Why does the armored man refuse to remove his helmet? And why… why do you seem so cold, so sad? Why did you answer to the name Pladen instead of Arisk?"
Pladen's expression remained unchanged. He simply turned to her and asked, his voice equally devoid of emotion, "Why do you question me, Elara?"
She glared at him, her eyes narrowing, and then she saw it: the slave crest, subtly placed on his neck, usually hidden by his collar. Her eyes widened in horror. "A slave crest?" she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. Then, her fear turned to rage. "Intruders!" she shrieked, her voice rising to a panicked yell.
In a swift, brutal motion, Pladen raised his fork and plunged it into her eye. She screamed, her hands flying to her face as he forced her against the wall, pinning her there with the fork still embedded in her eye socket. Her cries echoed through the small house, a mixture of pain and terror. She cursed us, her voice choked with sobs.
Then, her gaze fell upon me as I finally removed my helmet. Her eyes widened in disbelief, her voice trembling. "A human?" she whispered. "That's… not possible."
My curiosity was piqued. I had never considered the taste of Elven flesh. It was a novel thought, a new data point to consider. A slow smile spread across my face. "I wonder," I mused aloud, my voice calm and thoughtful, "how Elven flesh tastes."
As I spoke those words, I noticed Pladen. His hand, the one still holding his wife against the wall, began to tremble. Tears streamed down his face, his expression a mixture of horror, despair, and utter helplessness. He was a prisoner in his own body, forced to commit atrocities against his loved ones, unable to stop himself. He was a testament to the power of the slave crest, a stark reminder of the control I now wielded. The scene was… fascinating. It confirmed the effectiveness of my methods. The creation of the House of Darius was proceeding according to plan.