The escort smiled, although Taren couldn't see it. Nobody could. If someone drew close, however, they might hear her whimper and sigh as Taren played with her breast, his hands small but skilled. She kissed a clumsy trail from the corner of Taren's mouth to his throat, feeling his pulse flutter under her lips. Her hands slid down to grasp his hips before one slipped in between his thighs, fumbling at the clasp of his trousers.<br/><br/>The King of Curs would oft find himself on the receiving end of a disapproving elven stare, although he should be used to that by now. It did not hinder his observation, nor did it hinder his escorts' roaming hands. He would learn which elves drank too much, whose food the serving staff spat in (not his, remarkably), and that the ruling class of Glen Avon was generally not well-liked by the serving staff.<div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">He would also learn...</div><div class="spoiler_body">that the palace guard was unusually relaxed. It had been centuries since they faced any real threat, and in that time they had grown soft, arrogant that no threat could reach them here in the sky.</div></div><br/><br/>The festivities were interrupted as Qaizel, retainer of the prince, rushed into the courtyard. His appearance was ruffled, far from the pristine it had been during the ritual. Panic was written across his face. He clutched his chest dramatically and dropped to his knees before Araeth. "My king!" he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "It's Daragon, she's attacked the prince!"<br/><br/>The king rose out of his seat, his brow furrowed and eyes alight with fear and dismay. He almost didn't believe it, didn't want to believe it. But he had no reason to doubt Qaizel's testimony. "She<em>what</em>?"<br/><br/>Qaizel pointed back at the palace. "I saw her climbing up to the tower." The guards scowled, straightened up, hefted their spears and rushed off to the rescue. And you?