They were far from Tarukha, far enough away that the seas finally had ceased to gnaw on the keel of the ship like a starving animal, trying to pull the vessel into the depths greedily, as if it was hoarding some preciously rare food, that rare prey that still went out into the seas, praying to the gods to not be swallowed whole into an undulating grave of wine-dark abyss. Grand Duke Bozhda stood on the deck of the ship, calling back to the crew if they had spotted land yet. With each call, the Duke's voice became more strained, more loud, as the crew, in turn, increased the intensity of their replies. Traveling from Necroleste and crossing the ocean to Kingsport was hardly the ideal journey for a Duke to be making. This was more the domain of a salt merchant, but this was far from an ordinary excursion. 

Tarukha was far unlike Kingsport, unlike any city in the Brokenlands. The Language of the city was unlike that in the rest of the lands, the language known as Zimij. A tongue that invoked the sounds of liquids, of fluidity in its sounds. A perfect language for the people of the Islands, where the sea and the river controlled all in their lives, where it held supreme. On the ship, one would not hear the normal tongue of the Brokenlanders, but hear the sailors cursing and chatting in Zimij. It always made Bozhda feel like an outsider in these lands. Necroleste was as much a part of the Brokenlands as any other, yet it was no secret it was a black sheep, both in its people and in its very land. How Bozhda wished he need not leave the Valley, that the lands between the Avokha and the Tsikesite would be the only world he needed. Alas, Bozhda Olegasyn did not have the luxury of that ignorance. The Sawtooths needed him, as their strongest member, their leader, they needed any leverage necessary. 

The Duke was snapped out of his thoughts at the beckoning of a shiphand, whose high pitched cry signified that Kingsport had come into view. Bozhda sighed as the sailors began to prepare for the arrival to the city. Bozhda resolved to return to his quarters and await the docking.The duke retreated away, pouring some mead into a bone cup inscribed with exotic designs. A soldier had gifted it to him, claiming it to have belonged to a captured Maldpa warrior, taken after local guards speared the would-be raider when he showed up on a local farm. 

Bozhda felt a degree of power being surrounded by his guard. Nearly all of the duke's personal guard were local men of Zimij extraction, though their distinctive armor and dress were indicative of their origin in Brokenlander culture. The Duke had changed into something more befitting of their meeting, donning a pure white tunic, decorated on its hems and edges with a distinctive red Zimij pattern embroidered into it. The duke had combed his long blond hair back, secured in place with a headband, assured that his appearance was sufficient for the meeting. The Duke and his guard entered into the King's Hall, making their way to the other assembled vassals. 

Bozhda spoke for the first time in what seemed like years in his native language, to announce his presence to the moot. "The Duke of Necroleste has arrived, the Sawtooth Clan has answered the call for a moot."