The heavy gate was pushed open, the large man must possess considerable strength. Here, she saw multiple familiar faces, nobles of Arana mingling in the mansion, enjoying the hospitality of the young prince. Some of them seemed more at home in the festivities, surrounded by exotic dancers in outfits that would make an Olanian prostitute blush. The Su, it would seem, prefers to leave no doubt as to the beauty of their physical form, leaving very little to the imagination of their guests. These dancers were lean, but athletic, with dark coloured skin decorated by intricate tattoos here and there. They spun and leaped, pushing their barely covered breasts out towards the audience. Few of the guests seemed absolutely horrified at the extent of the celebration, though the more hypocritical amongst them would often steal glances at the half naked form of the performers.<br/><br/>That, was when Florence Genova first laid her eyes upon young Prince Iskander, the lastborn of the Azani dynasty. He was sitting in a small clearing with colourful pillows strewn about. While the young man was not the only well dressed Su in the room, the way he sat, so open and unguarded, soaking in the attention and stolen glances like a peacock showing off his feathers, he could only be someone with authority in this house, which meant he was the prince. He must be very young, from appearance alone he would not be older than two decades, but his confidence and aura projected a much older man (though appearances can be deceiving)<br/><br/>He was beautiful. Devastatingly so, with sharp facial structure and emerald-coloured eyes as sharp as a hawk's, crowned by a set of lash that would make any woman jealous. He was not, however, a man whose value lies only in his appearance and wealth. As Florence came closer, she would see that the young man's torso, which was barred from the low cut of his white garbs, was lean and muscled, like that of a gymnast. He was an athletic specimen to be sure. Even more telling of his harsh life was the endless crisscrossing shallow cuts on his skin that can only be observed once she came close enough, as if he was constantly being nicked on the hand, the face and the chest by little daggers, ruining what might have otherwise been considered perfection.<br/><br/>'The mangled prince', that was what the nobles called him, in his very own house with barely concealed whispers. His eyes met Florence's, gauging her intention for a few moment before he placed the back of his palm on a pillow next to him, with a gesture that seemed to mean 'come closer'.<br/><br/>"Come, my friend" he said in thick, Su accent but perfect pronunciation of her tongue. "Sit, if you want, no other woman here wanted to sit with me"