[u]Tribus Kahzlavs Frissian, Campus Frissia[/u]

In Dragan Soloviev's great hall sat Ferrison of Clann Raonaill. It had been a number of hours since his first reception from the Kahzlavs, and what better way to discuss matters over the table, with helpings of meat and drink? Dragan drank deep of his goblet, seated at long table's end, on his finely-crafted throne. Around the hall, trusted nobles were seated, chatting amongst themselves and helping themselves to the offerings on the table. Ferrison's men were treated to the Kahzlavs' seats as well, bringing the two distinct communities together under an open comradery. 

The hall itself was humble, yet embellished with banners of noble houses, tapestries that told stories of the Kahzlavs' ancestors and all manner of animal totems, fetishes and pelts. A band of musicians beat a warm tune, which filled the atmosphere with a light merriment. Swaying to the melody, Dragan lowered his drink and extended a hand to gesture at the guests around the hall. 

"Frissia bids you welcome, men of Raonaill! I hope everything is to your liking. No better way to do business than on a full stomach. Now, Ferrison; my men tell me your attention is to the Osla Roths? To what end do you seek out my aid today?"