N.. no… NO!
There is something far too… royal about that name. Something that strikes fear in your soul.
You’ve never understood why kings scare you. Maybe it’s those crowns – jagged rims glistening like a dozen metal teeth burst forth from their skull, a vestigial maw seeking to devour any so unfortunate to find themselves upon it. Maybe it’s their clothes – an ocean of sparkling purple silk dragged behind them like the vicious tendrils of an unholy carnivorous plant. Maybe it’s their very expression – the way it oozes that solemn, dutiful dedication to their country.
“Scare” might even be too weak a word. Dukes terrify you, as do Princes, Counts, and Barons. But Kings, Queens, Emperors… you don’t know what you’d do if you ever found yourself face-to-face with one. Probably curl up and cry.
You used to have a recurring nightmare where you were trapped in a small, dark room with a King. There’s no way out. No one to help you. And he just stands there, being a king. Luckily, you’ve mostly taken care of your nightmare problem through heavy self-medication. Though you guess the self-medication became the bigger problem.
This name sounds pretty cool though. You like the way it rolls off your sandpapery tongue. You jot it down and hand the immigration form to the guard.
The guard says you can keep it if you want. They don’t actually keep track of immigration, and he only brought the form because you asked. He’s just going to throw it out.
You tell him you don’t care. This has symbolic value to you. It makes your new life feel official. He obliges and accepts the document.
Not many people out here; everyone must be inside. Looks like there’s some shops near the dock. One appears to be a general store, the other some kind of restaurant.