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</div>It was the last leg of their journey. Eras was curious more than anything, though the guards were restless. He'd even settled atop the mount chosen for him. Long hours in the saddle would make him a better rider, though when it came to approaching, his little mare was edgy and unsettled. Was it the new smells? The presence of the broad leader on his beast? The furs, metals, and hints of bloodshed that decorated the region?<br/><br/>The Duke made his introductions atop his own horse, expertly in control, as Eras struggled with keeping the mare still. The translator spoke in the guttural language, expressing Sarhet's desire for a peaceful outcome and mutual benefit. The wind blew, chilly even in the afternoon with the sun low in the sky. Eras' mare was mouthing the metal in her mouth when she suddenly tucked her head and lurched sideways, sending herself and rider into the awaiting party in three giant strides. He managed to keep himself seated, a flurry of ornamental silks and thighs clinging around the barrel of the lean horse. With the reins, he pulled her head to the side to try and turn her around. She only blew threw her shoulder until met a solid wall of horseflesh that was the leader's mount. None of the other's were mounted that Eras could see, and now at eye height with the leader, he was trying to figure out a way to recover his blunder. Entirely embarrassed, heart thundering, he wished he had allowed one of the guards to take the reins of his horse in hand and walk him. Of course, that didn't cultivate appearances the way he wanted to be presented, and if he had remained in control, Eras was sure he would have painted an impressive picture. It was pride that nearly landed him in the lap of the barbarian leader, and himself looking foolish.<br/><br/>There was enough skin showing to make it obvious he wasn't hiding weapons on his person, though he couldn't have guessed what the tribesman were thinking. He was overdressed in ornamentation but entirely underdressed in the weather, skin chilled to the bone. He had figured the ride would warm him up, but the wind only continued to pick up the further north they traveled. He forgot his discomfort as adrenaline replaced the chill in his veins. Eras didn't advert his eyes or direct his attention elsewhere. In Dusan, failing to give a leader his full attention would have been a greater sign of disrespect.<br/><br/>"Apologies on behalf of my<i>diktaattori</i>.<i>Minun oli tarkoitus olla lahja</i>, a<i>orja</i>, to help show you the ways of our people. Something seems to have spooked my horse." Eras had remembered one of his lines at least, even if he forgot how to translate the context, or to explain it as a temporary exchange. He didn't look back to the others, entirely focused on the impressive man at his eyelevel. He could feel Sarhet's worry and eyes boring into the straight line of his spine, but Eras would not show fear. Instead, he would just try to recover the situation as best he could while his mare was temporarily frozen.<br/><br/><div class="bbCodeSpoiler">
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<div class="bbCodeBlock-content">*<i>diktaatori -</i> Eras means dictator or master. It is the only word in the Develdion language that might compare to what Sarhet is to him. <br/>
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<i>*Minun oli tarkoitus olla lahja, a  orja - </i>I was meant to be presented as a gift to you, a slave. <br/>
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*<i>Orja - </i>Slave, could hold entirely different meanings to the Develdion's than slave may mean to the Dusanian's.</div>
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