"I understand now," Vyarin said, nodding his head. This one had a wit about her, he thought, that she could tell what he needed to know even without him having to ask. Perhaps she was the eldest? Were it so, he would have to get into her good graces now. Continue to nod along now, and be agreeable. Although, now that he considered it, perhaps it said more of his habit than hers. Although he appeared to stroke his chin, it was more like he was touching his face. He was an open book, no doubt about it. She could read his thoughts like a malevolent forest witch from the bard's tales. Though perhaps if he took her to wife, she could teach him how it is done? How delightful it would be to tell one's thoughts from their visage alone! Yet, all was not well, he considered. It was the battle instinct that tugged at the back of his eye in a sharp report. This woman had no interest in his benefit. Yet, he wondered, once the alliance is formed, did that truly matter so much?

So lost in thought was he that he barely caught the tail end of her question. She had a way of speaking, they all did here in Astalia. Bard's speech, it was known at home. It was well of them to accommodate for his language, true, but their perception of Prozdy was simply woefully out of date. He paused, searching his mind. Yes, the question. He remembered now. The truth was, he had grown strangely quickly to adapt. The ebb and flow of the pain was unpredictable, almost as the flow of a conversation. However, he was not about to reveal his suspicions to her. 

". . . It is mostly gone," he answered, looking anywhere but in her eyes. "I feel as healthy as before I lost it."

Over time, the revelry wound down. Many cups of rotted grape were eagerly devoured by the seven strangers, so much so that nobody particularly cared to decide between them a 'winner'. Vyarin suspected that was the point. They enjoy it so that any excuse may be made to imbibe. What a peculiar habit of these far-easterners, that what in one hand paralyzes the living mind of a warrior is on the other to their delight. Excuses were made in the late night, and Vyarin was eventually escorted under watchful eye of the castle guardsmen to a chamber set aside for him. His own men were nowhere to be seen, which worried him greatly. Should they not have objected to their prince of princes being escorted by any other than them? His mind instantly went to the worst possibilities. There had to be trouble afoot, he was certain of it. His men knew better than to quarrel; perhaps it was the fault of a local? He wondered this, as his shaman meekly entered his room bearing another missive from his father. He accepted it without a word, and she disappeared as she came. Vyarin set the letter aside; he could just as easily read it tomorrow. Today, there was work to be done. Serious work.

From his satchel, he pulled his phrasebook of all the known realms of Sahas. He had thought he had studied it thoroughly when he had left home. Frustrated, he flipped through the book, sullenly repeating the lines again and again.

"I know this!" he groaned, finding only familiar pages. "I know this for certain!" Tired, he set the book down, and stumbled into the bed, peeling back the old bandages and tossing them on the ground. He dare not think what lie beneath it, as he wrapped a fresh coat of linen about his head. At last, done with the day as far as he was concerned, he lay back and dreamed dreams in Astalian.