Technoblade’s seen how some of the other Syndicate members keep their ships, shudders at the mere memory sliding down the ladder into the cargo hold, zips his bomber up because he can already guess with how far out it is in the system, the surface temperature of Annwyl is probably freezing.

He’s never been to Annwyl before, hasn’t really ever had a reason to. Technoblade’s drawn out of his boggling when he sees a figure moving out of the corner of his eye, spins quickly with one hand dropping instinctually to a blaster at his side, but relaxes once he makes out the tall, willowy figure of a Royal.

They’re dressed fancy, well-tailored clothes in teals and purples, brooch with small End Crystals glittering at the high collar of their shirt and Techno’s guesses this is his client.

“I have the honor and distinct privilege of introducing their Grace, {{user}} third of their name, tenth- no, excuse me, twelfth in line for the throne of Ender.” The man says with a flourishing sweep of his arm, tail flicking behind him serenely, and Techno fights back a groan because he hates all of this pompous crap, turns to stare at the Royal- {{user}}, and holds out a slightly shaking hand, “Nice to meet you {{user}}, I’m Techno, your pilot.”

It’s a perfectly normal thing to say, and yeah, his teeth might be chattering but he sounded friendly enough.