Vyarin gratefully takes one of the silver cups, looking down into the well to see for himself. This did not look particularly different from the profaned drink of the gold cup, but an experimental sip told him that it was well and safe enough. Opposed to the chokingly bitter sample before, this was mild, sweet but with a spicy aftertaste. How did they manage that, he wondered? Did they crush apples into a chalice, and sprinkle in a dash of ground peppers? What an amazing culinary tradition this land of Astalia kept. His mind came alive with the most absurd things being served on a platter. Goat's livers covered in honey? Fresh honeygrass mixed in with fried horseflies? Entire frogs, stuffed full with stalks of raw grain? He was certainly willing to give them a try.

"Let us go forth to glory," he sarcastically muttered in Prozdy, finally building up the courage to take a full swig from the spiced drink. It was a common phrase spoken before the consumption of a dinner. No man of the League would dare speak in the night preceding a battle. The various principalities that dotted the land were all unique in their own customs, but they all shared that much. The drink was strong with spice, so much so that he could feel particles of it scratch at his throat as it went down. It was powerful and uplifting, like the drink was made of fire, like it could fill him up with a fire's fury and he could raise fortresses with his own hands. Only guiltily afterwards did he realize he had taken the entire chalice in a single gulp, and was greedily eyeing another one. How unseemly of him, he thought to himself, pulling out a chair and joining the other heirlings as they gathered about the table, servants already melting away as they left behind them plates of resplendent, though disappointingly mundane-looking food.

The other seven chatted eagerly amongst themselves, all they who were fluent in Astalian. Vyarin felt a frustration bordering on anger bubble up inside him. So long as he sat here, he was deaf in all the ways that matter. He imagined it to be not much different from wading into battle missing an arm. Perhaps he could pick up a word that appeared frequently enough. 'Wine, wine,' they said. That Astalian word appeared frequently, but he could not even begin to wonder what it could translate to. Was it marriage? That was their purpose coming here, after all. Perhaps they were speaking of arranging matches between themselves. Was it war? There are hushed mentions of a brewing war, greater than any skirmish between princes Vyarin would ever have seen, between this land and the great northern realm. He could not see any sign of worry on any other faces; they are mighty and stoic, these fellow heirlings, brave in the face of threat. What could this 'wine' possibly be?