The young cleric woke quickly. Renato reckoned it had been less than two hours.
He had only just figured out how to use the house's magical stove when the rustle of someone getting dressed came from the bedroom.
Tristana emerged from the bedroom, fastening the leather straps of her scale mail fauld.
"Give it a few more minutes. The soup will be ready soon. You can try a specialty from Fried City..."
"Renato, who told you?"
By "told you," Tristana naturally meant his question before she went to sleep: "How long until you come of age?"
Renato had not expected the young cleric to be so hung up on her age.
"Tell me! I'll cut her tongue out." The young cleric gritted her teeth. "Spreading nonsense within the family, those loose-tongued servants..."
"It was Brichidi, your sister."
Renato paid no attention to the young cleric's muttered curses that followed. He was already used to the drow's concept of family affection.
Stirring the broth, Renato scooped up a spoonful and took a sip. It tasted just right.
"There's nothing shameful about not being an adult yet. To me, it means you're talented-that you've achieved at a younger age what others spend years working toward."
Recalling some general knowledge about elves that the original owner of his body had learned, Renato ventured:
"I remember elves come of age at around a hundred, right? How old are you now? Eighty?"
"We drow are blessed by the Goddess. Our bodies are healthy, and our wills are strong." Tristana looked proud. "We're nothing like those surface elves deceived by Corellon, all as weak and feeble as premature babies. For noble, pure-blooded drow, the sixty-fifth year of life marks the shedding of childishness and the passage into adulthood."
As she spoke, Tristana confidently thrust out her