Vyarin simply smiled wanly and nodded as the king spoke. His speaking was decidedly ancient in its style. He spoke in flowery euphemisms, in almost lyrical metre, as if he were reciting a poem in Literary Prozdy. Vyarin himself had grown up without such appreciation for the humanities, and thus even speaking in his own tongue he was brutish and direct. "Soldier-speak", his father would say often to other princes of the League, especially when they were trying to avoid having to discuss their own mistakes in combat. He doubted even if he responded in Prozdy that the king and himself could truly communicate well. Eventually, the older man left him, seemingly satisfied with the impression he made, to speak to a lady of the court, or perhaps one of his daughters. Vyarin continued to nod a bit after he had left, although he couldn't clearly say why. Something of the old king's presence had a habit of lingering.

Then, soon as the king was gone, Vyarin noticed a lady of the court stumble before another courtier. He immediately felt an instinct of shock grip his heart, almost similar to his own shock were he in her own place. The scene appeared somehow so familiar. She composed herself and continued on. Was she approaching . . . him? Indeed, she was, as she stopped in front of Vyarin and dipped in that curious style so common among women in these foreign lands. 

She spoke Prozdy as well. It was of the same pattern, and the same accent. Vyarin realized then that this was no mere lady, but one of the king's daughters. When she finished Vyarin responded with his own bow, in mimicry of the local style, and responded in his own language.

"I am honoured to be your guest," Vyarin said to the princess. She was so incredibly small, standing before him. "We traveled a great distance and long hours. I am of the clan Kremazov, Vyarin son of Zarrir. Who are you daughter of?"