Vyarin's brow creased, as he observed the interaction between their host the king and that green-coloured noble. Was he obligated to bring a gift? He patted his pockets, hoping by some miracle that something would materialize within them worthy to be presented before a man of such great station. Unfortunately, they were empty. Vyarin's gaze drifted down to the shashka at his belt. Perhaps . . . certainly not. He felt absurd for even considering the possibility. A man's sword was an extension of his own will. The boys of Prozdy grow up with wooden sword in hand, as if their right arms were simply longer than their left. Nonetheless, he would have to come up with something, lest he offend the king in his own home. Vyarin was done with offenses.

His eye drifted upwards to the walls, then the ceiling, hoping something hiding in the decorations would give him inspiration. His mind raced as he tried to recall everything he had brought with him in his bags and those of his men. Practical items, nothing he would give even an innkeeper's wife. Hardtack, dried meats and fruits, machetes for the more difficult portions of his long trail southward. Lamps that squeaked with rust, and clothes that no doubt would fit nobody in this entire chambre excepting perhaps those exotic green-skinned men some rows ahead of himself. Vyarin looked down at his fingers, comparing them to those around him. They were unadorned with rings and signets, and covered with callouses. No luck even should the king ask to shake his hand.

"Apology. Apology for . . . no item. To give. Apology for no item . . . to give," Vyarin muttered to himself, in the local tongue. He marked the pauses with a few curses in his own Prozdy speech. He was never much of a polyglot, and this language was harder to learn than most. Conjugations, prepositions, pronouns, they swirled about his head as he grabbed pieces of words and tried to cram them into a working sentence. What if the king should ask for him to answer? Vyarin's hands balled up into fists as he continued to rehearse to himself, staring quietly down at them. "Apology for no item to give . . . we Prozdy is no man of . . . lavishness . . ."