((literally a month of academic hell later))

Miry blinked at Zak’s joke about blessings and generals. [i]That’s not the Gemmenite way, and it never has been.[/i] Her signs were sharp and precise, her stare fixated at his chin. And it was true, at least in the way these foolish Westerners thought to fight their wars; for their conflicts, resolved in cruel affairs of blade and blood, some sort of cruel marshal prowess might have been necessary, but it was simply not a factor in Gemmenian conflicts.

Nenra shot a glare at Miry, which was swiftly ignored. The older bride internally groaned. Engaging in even more political drivel was just going to make them unable to get back on the road in a timely manner, and the lord had said they’d end up sleeping on the road, which she was decidedly [i]not[/i] looking forward to… she rose from her seat, placing the empty stew bowl and water glass on the rock beside the lord’s. With an alarming series of popping noises, she stretched her arms and shoulders and neck, her muscles and joints tense from having been seated for so long. Notably, she was very flexible in her shoulders especially, her linen shirt sleeves falling away and emphasizing the defined muscles of her arms and ribs as she stretched. 

As she did, Zakroti mused about the logistics of importing the plants, apparently oblivious to (or else just a very good actor) the linen-wrapped balls of earth that weighed down Nenra’s bags. She hesitated visibly, chewing on a thumbnail as she considered her options. She felt she was betraying her family and her pride to say what she was about to, but it might earn her favor in the lord’s household…
[i]Favor.[/i] Her lips curled and she lightly shook her head, disgusted with herself. It wasn’t about [i]favor[/i]. Like she was some kind of frilly noble, trying to further herself and selling out everything she and her family stood for. 

But her fingers itched to be buried in fertile earth again, ached for the peace and authenticity of a garden she’d grown herself. 
“I have seeds,” she blurted, finally. She glanced up to Zakroti, her eyes wide and expressionless, trying to determine his reaction. She swiftly ignored the bait to the discussion of symbology, and she glared at Miry – who thankfully, or perhaps not thankfully at all, seemed to still be stuck on the implication of insult to the entire Gemmenite mythos. [i]We[/i] lost, [i]Miry. Our people lost to the gods and then to the Drakken. Let it go.[/i]

She refocused her attention on the seated lord.

“Seedlings for the roses, a few of our local fruits, and handfuls of wildflowers.” Beyond the flowers, which had been a whole assortment of seeds gathered from the meadow on the upriver side of the farm, the fruits she brought were the kinds of plants that took months to even sprout, and years to properly fruit; the delicate mountain plums and pygmy chestnuts were certainly the most notable. She was not about to elaborate that one bundle of the herbs she carried were those of women’s medicine, grown together and made into a tea that was found to prevent unwanted pregnancies and the like, as well as helping with pains and sicknesses related to such functions of the body. [i]That[/i] seed ball was sure to be a death sentence if it was found; they’d all heard horror stories of women who were unable to bear a child in a timely enough manner for their lords. 

But such was a problem for another time.

Nenra stretched her arms up over her head again, glancing to the sun’s progress across the sky. She very much was eager to get on the road again; she glanced around to their retinue and found that, thankfully, everyone else was done or nearly done eating. Bar any further political or cultural distractions in the next few minutes, such other academic fluff could be discussed on the road again.