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</div>The Dusanian royal palace was open and airy, though equally well protected. Its pillars and walls were embossed, works of art alone, and their floors etched with gold leaf against marble. It was more meant to release heat during the warmer months, going along with their mostly tropical climate in the capital city of Alta. Silk curtains billowed from open archways, streamers of flashing yellow, a color of contemplation.<br/><br/>King Jausemir Vridan Heilasinth had received his brother in the meeting chamber. A mosaic ceiling overhead, the King himself draped over his dominion, wearing a long embroidered silk tunic in white to match his alabaster skin. With his pale hair to go along with it, he was an ethereal sight. Tall and regal, young for a King. Inherited by pure bloodlines. Half brother only, the Duke held presence but though older, was not meant for the throne.<br/><br/>Long talks of further outreach, peace treaties, and expansion had taken place within those walls. Decisions finalized, Duke Sarhet would be leading the meeting expedition with the Develdion people. Their concerns were many, and they'd combed over them several times before they even initiated contact. As a peaceful nation, the outlandish and barbarian culture of the tribes and northern villages were far from what they were used to. They'd made peace several times over with other allies, albeit more civilized ones, and they had to wonder if this wasn't the sort of thing that would bring them to war. The tribes could be dangerous, fickle, prone to insult and aggression.<br/><br/>Sarhet was more relaxed but Jausemir was concerned. They had plenty to gain from an alliance with such a beast, if only they could tame them. Plenty to offer, as well. Food was plentiful. Trade was going well. Their alliances also grew their enemies, and defense was becoming a concern. They had a structured military, though were not quick to use it. With the tribal alliance and their known tendencies, many would think twice about making Dusan their next target. Their peaceful nature was too often taken as a weakness.<br/><br/>The Duke had formulated a team to take with him. A few trusted advisors, a linguist, a slave, and a small handful of soldiers led by Jausemir's favorite general with orders to keep Sarhet safe. All but the soldiers had sat in on most of the negotiations. They all knew the details and were aware of the risk involved, yet Sarhet was happy with the correspondence between him and the representatives of the Develdion.<br/><br/>"I don't get that feeling," Sarhet said simply when there was talk of the dangers involved.<br/><br/>"You cannot base the wellbeing of your country simply on a feeling," Jausemir countered.<br/><br/>"Of course not, and I will be the one taking the brunt of the risk."<br/><br/>The King frowned, displeased that his brother had talked him into a circle. He was easily irritable because their departure date was a few days off. Everything was being accounted for and the variables that were left were too much for the man to be able to predict or control. Sarhet was the type that liked to play the game of risk. The King was more practical. Far less of a romantic.<br/><br/>Long hours after most had retired, Sarhet sat on the balcony smoking a sweet tobacco with Eras, trusted slave of many years. Eras was a bit taller than the Duke and stood proudly, shoulders drawn back, not curled or slouched in his posture. A curtain of dark brown hair, eyes to match and exposed tan skin, free of scars or blemishes. Vibrant emerald silk hanging low on his hips, folded and laid over in their preferred slave fashion. No shoes. Little care of modesty. A seasoned slave in his prime. Considered plain in appearance by some, but Sarhet had never preferred flash. He much favored mind. He fully felt that Eras was strong enough to handle a foreigner, yet soft enough to be compelling when he wanted to be. Aged just the right amount.<br/><br/>It was rare that they shared a bed any longer, but company was another thing. Eras had thrown himself into his studies of the culture, as he usually did. Their knowledge was limited, and most of it was old battle skirmish reports, but it was what they had. He worked with the nuances of their dialect with the linguist, but maybe some of that wasn't correct. None of them were fluent and competent enough not to make error.<br/><br/>The decision to bring a slave was not a decision that Sarhet made lightly. Eras was bold and willing, otherwise he would not have considered it. Eras, like Sarhet, understood the risks.<br/><br/>"You will show him Dusanian hospitality while we go through a few days negotiations, then you will return with me. The Und Hraggen will be greeted again with a familiar face when he arrives, and he might trust you enough to follow your lead into our culture." That, or the barbarian would make grievous error and offend Sarhet with an act of violence. It would be a test before being invited within their walls, though one that if anyone could navigate, it would be Eras.<br/><br/>They rode out a few days later.<br/><br/>Sarhet was dressed in fine leather trousers and a breathable long sleeve shirt of indigo with white embroidery. Over that, he had a matching shawl tossed half-haphazardly around him. Laced riding boots, tightened and fitted. He wasn't as tall as his brother and shorter in stature than most Dusanians. He was not thin, or whispy, but someone of a light bulk, muscled like a swimmer. His hair was a mild brown, graying underneath at the temples, brushing his shoulders. Not the platinum color of his brother, but he'd never been the pretty one. Perhaps in comparison to some people, his face might still have that androgynous look that was common of Dusan. To him, and all the beauties he'd known, he felt he was a bit dull, not that he minded. He was not vain as a result, and often people found his humble nature agreeable. He had lines around his eyes that would speak for his age, and patience to back it up, coming forty-two in the summer. Tan skin, unlike his brother, who took painstaking measures to assure pale skin didn't burn in the hot Dusanian sun.<br/><br/>He first held a horse still for Eras to mount. A gesture that spoke to their relationship. He'd always known Eras to be frightened of horses, though little else. He picked out a gentle coppery mare with smooth gaits. She was soft and responsive, though steady and not as hot as his own mount. His stallion was a temperamental beast full of fire. Tall, agile, and ready to depart. The color of gold and soot. They were horses bred for endurance, fine boned to dissipate the heat. All the others mounted after the Duke, and off they went. It would be quite the bit of travel, especially for those used to certain luxuries. They brought with them pack animals and enough to set up a modest camp (modest for Dusan).<br/><br/>Eras found his stride. He rode well despite his anxiety. When Sarhet had first known of his fear, he spent long hours with him training horses in the sea. Cushioned by waves to catch falls, Eras had learned a great deal. Now his fears were manageable but he would be more comfortable once they made camp.<br/><br/>"I would say that you're looking more forward to meeting the barbarian than you are riding your horse come morning. Maybe it would be best to switch horses so that you might appreciate your gentle mare," Sarhet joked. His retinue had sat around a communal dinner that evening of the most perishable of their previsions. Eras laughed at the comment.<br/><br/>"I would meet a dozen warlords before riding that stallion of yours," Eras joked, leaning forward to swipe a bottle of wine from the general. He was a grizzled man in his fifties, by the name of Ardnt, though still handsome in a way that had the slave flirting. Even more so when the older gentleman scowled.<br/><br/>"Best save it. You've got a lot more riding to do," Ardnt implied, and Eras cackled at the crude soldier humor that he barely ever had a chance to encounter. Sarhet didn't join in their laughter.