Vyarin was shuffled awkwardly through the grand halls of Castle Aeli, flanked on both sides by a small host of his own loyal men. He, wisely, had dismissed the majority of them, allowing them leave to retire to inns and taverns. It was perhaps for the best. His own host and the local garrison were eyeing each other up the whole time, a few even daring to rattle their swords in their scabbards. These Astalians were not men of the League, but nonetheless Vyarin was not the least bit interested in such a demonstration of Prozdy strength. Better to appease their host now, and enter into the castle with only a token guard. After all, it was not as if Astalia was plotting his death. Vyarin grimaced and rested his hand on his shashka, now pondering the thought. A flick of his eye met with those of the castle guards, none of which were particularly friendly. A look back revealed that his own men shared this sentiment. Were they truly itching for a fight, right here in the seat of one of the great realms of the world? It must be their insular habit coming through, having never known the world on the far side of the Drizima River. 

"Send word to my father," Vyarin whispered to his shaman, who nodded, with a hand to her chin. "I am in the land of Astalia, I am in good health, I await your orders." The shaman needn't hear more, peeling off from the group. With a wave of his hand, two of his loyal men turned to follow her, nodding at the command.

At last, the what remained of the warband entered through the doors into the main hall, wherein stood the King of Astalia, surrounded by his daughters. As one, Vyarin and his loyal men brought themselves down to both of their knees in his presence and tipped their heads downward. Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot the other princes, strange figures in stranger dress. Oddly, they did not prostrate before their hosts as he did. Slowly, Vyarin stood back up, realizing his instinct had led him astray. That, perhaps, was not the custom of the land. 

Fortunately, nobody seemed to think much of the Prozdy mens' display. The king had granted them a greeting in Prozdy, thickly accented and pockmarked with grammatical errors. It was to be forgiven, Vyarin supposed, knowing his own relationship with their language. He then raised his arms and gave to them a speech, slowly and clearly, with a booming voice that carried itself naturally within the bounds of his hall. Vyarin could understand not a word of it, save a few phrases here and there seeded between lengthy strings of gibberish. At last, when he completed his thought, Vyarin visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping as he exhaled. One of his loyal men surely must know more than he regarding the Astalian tongue.

Barely seconds after, he was tapped on his shoulder, leading him to whirl and nearly strike one of his own. It was, now seeing him, one of the men he had sent to escort his shaman. Vyarin gave him a hard look with the eye remaining to him.

"Word has returned quickly," the man whispered, pressing a scrap of papyrus into Vyarin's hand. Without delay, he opened it to reveal the glowing Gluzic runes within. They read curtly and without prose, a manner common to the renowned Zarrir.

"My son," it began. "The land of Astalia is of a foreign ethic. Their succession prefers consanguinity to strength. Daughters in this land are more legitimate than brothers with large retinues. Your choice here will dictate the future of Prozdy itself. I am recommending to you to demand from the ruler of this vulnerable realm his eldest daughter in marriage. By the laws of this land, your son by her is eligible not only to our lands, but to their crown. Such power, concentrated into a single hand, will be doubtless the most powerful in the continent, and the combined wealth of the new realm shall raise armies uncountable. Do not disobey me." Vyarin blinked up, his eye jumping from one daughter to the next. Which was the eldest? A second though manifested for a second, before his own iron discipline squashed it out. It mattered not how he felt about things.