The familiar men of House Marrow had stopped their skeletal parade at the bottom of the sun baked steps where the Ashtoken watched diligently, joyed to recognize old friends so far from the warm sandy home of the east. 

House Marrows king, Osmodeus, had paused mid-step as he noticed the Ash kin staring at him blankly as they have grown notorious of doing. The Voice, Gori, exhaled sharply as a formality, and the Ashtoken guard bowed their heads humbly at the guest and crossed their arms at their waists and away from the long curved Ashishian blades. 

As Osmodeus approached once more, this time open armed, Gori's still ashen face did not change as he accepted the gesture with his own open arms. Although a clear example of the formal stoicism to be expected of an Ashtoken, Osmodeus could see the friendship in The First Stars eyes, and a smile that would've been there. 

Gori Lamillur, lifted his arm, letting his long, finely patterned, sand colored sleeve slip down to his elbow, revealing his ash colored arm, covered in copper rings native to the artists of Kenero. Segregated however was his upper forearm as it was revealed to be adorned with a decorative bone brace, the very gift Osmodeus once sent. A slight curl fought it's way to the edge of Gori's mouth, but only so slight, that the great Marrow king would see. 

A soft western breeze flew by the political friends and neighbors with grace and the scent of rich foods and drink. The short chirps of urban chickadees broke silences between the louder banter of the citizens of sky haven, as well as the loud rolls of wooden wheels on beaten cobblestone roads. However, there was one sound, just one that didn't quite fit this western scene, and that was Gori's voice. 

A strong and deep accent rolled out of his throat with a melodic hum. A tone unheard of by the people of the west, and rarely heard from most elsewhere. As an Ashtoken, Gori holds their beliefs closely. One belief is that words shall never be wasted on anything, if it can be said with motions or expressions, say it with them. Of course with the cunning of the people of the Ash they eventually developed entire languages of simple notions and expressions, and some even more vague language supplements by the more elite members of the tribes, to the point that the actual spoken word became so rare and so reserved for long intellectual speeches or philosophical debates, that each syllable became a blessing, and each pronunciation an exotic poem. 

Thus Gori spoke, his deep voice dancing with the breeze in a tongue not native to his lands, "My good friend, it is well to see you on this day," He said as his free hand came up and laid rest on the shoulder of the Marrow King.