Alata quietly withdrew his hand from the door. Clearly, the Princess was not accepting visitors just then, and from the sounds of faint sobbing, she was not ready to be confronted by anyone. 

Turning to make his way back down the steep passageway, the lore master's eye fell upon a dense bunch of dried herbs. One of his own, carefully prepared bundles in case of emergency. Alata tutted as he picked it up - it was sloppy of him to mislay such a thing.

Tucking the dry stems into a fold of his robe, he re-assumed his gryphon form and began descending the staircase. He trod deeply into the thin carpet, each step carefully planned and considered - [i]purposeful[/i]. Upon reaching the lower passage, he leaped to a high windowsill and looked out, his sharpened eyes surveying that which was invisible to his older, weakened human form. Seeking refuge from the tumults of the day, he spread his silver wings and shot into the clear sky, the fan of feathers at his tail fluttering in hi wake.

He was not to know, until much later, of that which he left behind him on the Princess's landing. A herb. A mere stem.

And burst into flower.