Nenra watched the conversation from a distance, her jaw dropping slightly as Miry described her family’s actions – no real family would ever throw someone away like that, surely. But, she supposed, those noble politics were why the people of Myllendh seldom bothered to leave their village. They always had cared little for that posturing and nonsense of noble politics, not when there was land to be tended and children to be raised.

Her shock turned to disgust, though, as Miry seemed to forget all of that history she supposedly knew. The small girl clung to Zakroti, burying her face in his side and crying – rather like a small child clinging to a parent, or perhaps a young lover to a foolish partner.
What was she doing? He didn’t really care, certainly not yet but probably not ever. 

Miry had insisted on sharing his bed that first night – Nenra privately thought it an incredibly foolish decision, though she’d kept her mouth shut about it. The younger bride was scared, and lonely, and trying to protect herself however she could, she knew – but still. It spat in the face of every bride who’d ever come to suffering here before.

Zakroti looked to her and she carefully schooled her features, mentally replaying the conversation. Right, languages. “I suppose that it’s impressive enough, if that’s what you want to do with your life,” she said, unable to hide the slight bit of boredom that seeped into her voice. She had little patience for most academic pursuits, truth be told, but from how the lord spoke (and looked, though she knew better than to fully judge a man by his form) she was certain he was more an intellectual type than a warrior.

She set aside her empty bowl, stretching her arms above her head with a slight yawn and an alarming series of popping noises in her arms and back. She reached down, gathering up a small pinch of the dirt here and rubbing it between her fingers. Dry, acidic, without much ability to hold moisture even when it had rain; agriculture here would be a nightmare.

She rather hoped Zakroti would let her have a garden here, wherever exactly “here” was – she thought to the seed balls nested in at the bottom of her satchel. Her mother, Vivari’s blessing, had been able to convince the reaping party to wait, just to [i]wait for half a span[/i] so that they could pack up some belongings and provisions for the road. They were already going to be late, and surely they were running out of provisions, so they’d send them off with some so their daughters wouldn’t go hungry. In thirty minutes, every girl’s family had packed her a bag of belongings; Nenra’s siblings had thrown in as many seed balls as they could fit (seeds and fertilizer loosely tied into a knot of thin muslin with a holding spell on it, designed to scatter seeds when thrown and often used for planting in smaller garden plots) so that she could bring the flowers and crops of home wherever she ended up.

It was a touching gesture, to be certain. She turned her attention back to the crumbling desert dirt she held, dusting it off of her hands and shaking her head lightly.

Miry shook her head slightly. [i]‘I don’t know,’[/i] she signed. [i]‘None of my siblings seemed to find any of the same patterns. They thought I was crazy, but I guess that’s why my aunt wanted ME to inherit, not them. I wouldn’t know. I don’t know anything.’[/i] She stared at the ground for a long moment before continuing. 

[i]‘Will your grandfather be awaiting us at home, then?’[/i] she asked, trying to keep the signs light. A tremble came into her fingers as she considered the question, though. She had not gotten on with his grandfather, not in the slightest. [i]‘or I guess – more properly. Who all will be? I just – sorry – I just want to be prepared and – not embarrass you. He already hates me, I don’t want everyone else to, too, and...’[/i]