A joyous composition filled the extravagant ballroom, it filtered through the air and echoed out into the halls, the deep bass of the instruments running waves of vibrations through the stonework, Erick could feel it in his chest. The event was busy and bustling with dignitaries and the esteemed social classes - they were surely examining the foreign visitors with interest, but well concealed behind polite smiles.

The fresh streak of broken skin along Erick’s left cheek had stopped bleeding, at least - he’d explain it as a small accident of course. The Jörda Prince scanned around for the Princess Jinayah, but as of yet he could not locate her. Vyarin however, even disregarding the man’s size, stuck out like a sore thumb - Erick could sense the discomfort of the Prodzy Prince before he even need approach him.. he smiled, inwardly, but refrained from letting it tellingly break across his lips. Jörda would have the crown princess, undoubtably.

Erick was equipped with as much finery as they could pack with them, and adorned with it only with the curtailment that excess would be obscene at such an event; nevertheless, exquisite fabric, furs, gold and ceremonial weaponry ensured he was both somewhat encumbered and hot; his warm skin emanating the patchouli oil dotted at the base of his neck. The Prince approached Vyarin, who seemed to be musing over the untouched banquet from a distance, the Prodzy man smelled of soapy linen if not a little..humid? Like cloth that was not quite dry. Erick too examined the table, “do you think it is a test?” he joked, it was hard to gauge at times, in this land, if things were as they seemed they were.