Admittedly, the Mer creature was somewhat adorable or at least endearing in his peculiar mannerisms and speech impediments. In a way, he felt like he had some ancient inter-species connection with the creature. And very much so was he interested in it's physiology, but also in the astute, though unusual, observations  he made off handedly. It was akin to that of a really bright child actually; some things, Amanti could laugh off easily, like his out of place exclamation to liking feathers and his brief tirades about his clothing finds and travelling. Sweet and naive with the kind of spontaneous nature of youth. A very charismatic youth that didn't know his own appeal, but made others aware of it all the same. But other instances, the Mer said things that made Amanti pause and ponder, falling into a thoughtful silence at questions he should've and probably had asked himself before over and over again. 

And if he could not answer himself, how could he answer Sindre?

  He believed he could handle harsh words and foul phrases slung his way, despite the delicate nature of a Fae. He would like to think his skin was thicker than it physically, at least enough to handle the sharp slice of quills, but they did say the plumage of a dragon was coarser than any other creature, but perhaps he was starting to look into this metaphor a little too deeply. It was not a question meant to be answered aloud anyway though Amanti would have really liked to known the source of the crowned Prince's enmity toward his arrival. Could it be he was truly just hated? He wasn't sure if he felt better or worse knowing that was the case.
  
  And did this influence his decision for relation? That was a question he could answer to the Mer, but needn't as the Mer cut himself off. And he wasn't sure if it was better to say the hard truth out loud or leave himself to ponder whether it was the truth or the right reason. He wanted so badly not to knock himself off course though, after he had come so far. He didn't want to suddenly second guess himself and make. His entire journey here for nought. If he came back to his people with not only the news that he hadn't obtained any protection from them, but the most fiercest and mighty creatures in the world were as mean-spirited as the were rumored to be. It sounded vacuous in his own mind.

 And his family, "I suppose," He had answered to the Mer, "I will look forward to going home though and telling them about the world. It has not changed as much as I thought it would, we have kept up with the times well at least even if we have not wholly involved ourselves in it's shifting politics and cultures. I suppose that the journey is worth that relief." And he couldn't imagine what the policies and culture of the met was like. If they were as sedentary and private of a society as the Fae were or if perhaps they ruled the seas collaterally or had a hierarchical structure in place. Wonder seemed to understand the title of a prince though he would not make any assumption without substantial evidence or confirmation. 

All the same, it did not stop him from wondering about his latest aquatic acquaintance. And as he wondered, he also wandered until he realized he did not know where he was meant to go. The winding marble floors suddenly seemed dizzying in their repeated patterns and as for the wallet, well they seemed just as mocking as they scrutinized their ditsy little guest wandering lost and barefoot along their marble spines. 

  Fortunate for the Prince, though perhaps unfortunate to the sinister plans of another, it was a problem easily rectified with the passing of another serf in his path. A quick hailing down, a low bow and a quick explanation and the serf led him  to where he need go. And as they descended down the corridor, Amanti felt relieved as he passed more spectacular carvings and woven tapestries adorning the hallways for as splendid this place was in it's grandeur, it was repetitive to an extent and the prince was sure he could've spent days wandering the halls like a weary Spector until he found where he needed to go. 

 He wished to make his entrance discreet, being fashionably late was out of his vocabulary. Ushered into the smaller dining hall, he bid a hasty thanks to the serf and then an even hastier bow to the Emperor and Prince sat awaiting him.

  "Pardon my tardiness. I was...lost admiring your tapestries. We do not have such woven silks in out land, I was curious as to who has weaver something so fine." He said, same politeness, same tone as he was ushered once more to take the seat next to the emperor. Back straight, posture mimicking, Amanti stared down at the complex feast laid out before him and hastened to silence the soft rumble of his stomach. 

 The air felt strangely tense as if he had just arrived at the end of some unresolved conflict, but he would not interfere with personal parenting methods. 

  Compared to before, he had simmered down, though his new appearance might still draw some double takes.

  Strange delicacies he was sure that he could only somewhat discern through smell and looks alone. Waiting grace, he pondered exactly what looked 'safe' to eat. He was not a very picky eater normally, but the restrictions placed on a fae's diet could be stifling. He was willing to break a few simple customs if it meant pleasing the Emperor though and...well, he glanced up briefly at the Prince across the table from him before he lowered his head and not his tongue. Not wishing to speak of ink or sentient living center pieces.
[hr]
 The cry rang out into the hallowed night, sorrowful melancholy; a deep unfiltered sound cutting raggedly through the night. Pausing only to take a shaky breath before it's sobbing continued. Until his lungs were torn and his throat was hoarse and each breath felt like swallowing sea urchins, but still the sound continued, desperately beseeching comfort. Echoing, resounding, playing back as it answering it's own pleas. Until even the sea was a distant memory and water seemed like an elixir kept from his shredded throat. And he licked his lips and blew into the horn until he could no more but rasps and watch as the stars answered him pitifully and the waves crashed behind him, bidding him come home before the night left him helpless. Like a drunken fool, he blocked those calls and threw his instrument down in anger. It wobbled and rolled across the smooth sand before, as if in an act of anger or revenge at it's ignored symphonies, the waves swept it back and dashed the innocent instrument across the rocks. Glittering shards scattered in a final musical crescendo. 

And should he care? Should he cry over his instrument lost when his voice was already gone and he had not the will to play it anymore? When his search was endless but fruitless and futile? SHould he care if he chose to lay down her end let the sun dry his flesh and the gulls pick apart his scales? Perhaps, perhaps so. For his hallowed cries may not have been answered, but certainly they had awoken the night guard.