There was a lot to consider for Vyarin, as he is led along another great hallway by his retinue. His eyes narrowed unjustifiably at the paintings arranged along the wall. Those women, the daughters, had made something of an impression on him. He thought back to earlier in the day, how two of them had approached the assembly of princes. Each was flanked by a man, a loyal guard most likely. They were as the new moon and the full, the two of them. Was it a ploy of some sort? He had seen such a plot before, observing as his father and his uncle would question defectors. Yet all that was years ago, and Vyarin's memory of that now has faded near enough that he cannot recall for the life of him any particulars. He scratched his chin, where the scruff was just beginning to return. Focus, now, was key; it was of paramount importance that he take note of all that occurs within these walls.

The first had introduced herself as Sulhana, before the entire hall. She then approached Vyarin first, her loyal man in tow, and spoke to him, venom in her throat. As she stepped forward, he and his men stepped back. Vyarin looked into her eyes but for a split second, and looked away. Her gaze could only be surpassed in its strength by his own father. He had spent enough time with his father to know; the older man was never shy to display his anger, and very quickly do all who counsel him learn to recognize when they are being spat at. So too was the case with this Sulhana, who although of shorter stature and more slender form, spoke down to Vyarin in the nature of a host to their unwanted guest. Her guard translated, his mastery of the Prozdy speech impeccable, but overly literal, and the language of Astalia did not map perfectly to that of Prozdy, it must be admitted. Vyarin found the man curious, in a way. Did his ancestry stem from the League? Had he served under a prince within? As Sulhana finished, Vyarin gave a nod to her, and another to her translator, and they moved on to the next prince.

The second daughter was the true surprise. Rather than making use of a translator, she spoke to him directly, calling him by the traditional manner and offering to him a gift. The jewel was magnificent, larger than his own thumb by at least twice, cut with obvious masterwork. Vyarin reached out with his hands and took the box.

"I receive this . . . err . . . in your honour," he had said. Poetics did not come naturally to him. Yet, she had made the effort to speak to him as the nomad-chiefs did, so he felt he ought respond in kind. He didn't dare try the same in Astalian; that sounded a path towards disaster. 

The crowd, with time, began to depart. Vyarin took one last look at the other princes, then at his own retinue. The loyal men returned his look with their own, some of them quizzical, most of them tired. After a brief silence, one of them approached, and whispered.

"Your orders, superior?"

"Go into the town and collect the rest. We were promised food and shelter, let them feed and shelter us. If any of them managed to get themselves into trouble . . ." Vyarin thumbed the little jewel in his hand. ". . . Pay off their grievances. We have excess coins; not steel." As for him, well . . . the Court of Flowers awaits.