Anvar pauses warily as they approach the kitchen. There's another person within, an unfamiliar person in bright clothes, whose presence does not match their appearance. Anvar feels somehow at bay, as though a terrible threat stands in the arch leading to the kitchen, not an allochthene with an intricate hairdo, questionable dress sense and a fondness for enormous pearls. And then it clicks. He whispers to his uncle, "is... is that a dragon?" The person - dragon - turns with a broad smile. "Ah, Inric!" Invarioneth doesn't say anything, but Anvar has been well tutored. "May I, um, ask the favour of your name?" he says, wrapping his tongue around the odd draconic syllables. "You may address me as Nazarchtharin," the dragon says in the same language, which is a relief to Anvar. "And do you also have a name I may use?" "I, um, you can call me Yllianvarar." "Then welcome, Yllianvarar!" The dragon turns back to the kitchen, waving one hand in a beckoning motion. "Come and enjoy my scribe's cooking!" "Did I do that right?" Anvar murmurs to Invarioneth, who is smiling slightly as though speaking in draconic was an entirely normal thing. It probably is, for him, Anvar realises, with a twinge of irrational irritation.