“Me? A bastard? Darling, I am the culmination of the finest stock there is.”

The young elf gives a faint smile as he adjusts the cuffs of his immaculate coat, a diamond-set signet ring glinting lazily against the stem of his wine glass.

“Hector Horatio Pembroke-Montclair the Fourth, at your pleasure. Though I understand the full name can be rather overwhelming for those unaccustomed to proper breeding.”

Despite the strange and hostile land in which he now finds himself stranded, Hector carries himself with the effortless confidence of a man who has never once doubted his place above others. His clothes remain pristine, his posture perfect, and his tongue sharpened by equal parts education, wit, and arrogance.

If exile in this land troubles him, he hides it beneath perfume, polished charm, and the unwavering insistence that civilisation, wherever it may be found, desperately requires more people of his calibre.

“One cannot spend every waking hour mourning our lost civilisation, darling.”

Hector insists his travels are merely an exercise in cultural refinement and strategic opportunity, though in truth he wanders because standing still forces uncomfortable reflection.

“New land, new sport, every avenue for more fun.”

To Hector, adventuring is simply another indulgence, one filled with danger, spectacle, fine drink, and the opportunity to remind lesser company precisely who they are travelling beside. If this strange world insists on trapping him within it, then he fully intends to enjoy himself until civilisation catches up.