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For a good long while, you stare up at the ceiling of the wheelhouse, pondering what you wish to say to the Princeps. A crude joke about your state of dress does not suit you, nor can you find anger at a man who if nothing organized the destruction of a dangerous and invasive species of flower upon your nation's lands. A prod at his pride would seem ungrateful, however tempting it may be. So too would demands, for your freedom or for the presence of your companions, however reasonable they may seem.
After a long while of thinking in circles, you settle on the obvious. With a throat you hardly realized was so parched and stuffed, you croak out that, "You have my sincerest thanks, Princeps. Was the Somnumblume dealt with?"
His voice lacks the usual enthusiasm and cheer that you've come to know from him on the battlefield. His eyes do not leave the window, his gaze far away and unfocused. "Burnt to ash. Not a single seed remains to spread that blighted flower on the wind."
"Then you have done your southern neighbors a great service," you tell him. You keep your words and tone polite, though not entirely deferential. Not quite how you would thank one of your peers, but not how you would address your liege, either. It's a careful balance to strike, especially given that the Princeps is not behaving as you know him. "It was 'pon my lands the Somnumblume were found, so I am in your debt."
The Princeps' lips curl into a faint smile that does not quite reach his eyes. His words are steely, with an unfamiliar edge to them that you have not heard before. "Indeed you are, my lady. And though it may be rude of me to say, I intend to... I believe the merchants call it 'cashing in'. Yes, I intend to cash in sooner rather than later."
Your good eye narrows at his words. Cautiously, respectfully, you inform him that, "There are some things that you may want of me that I am afraid I must refuse, Princeps."
That elicits a bark of laughter from the man, hollow at first but it melts into something more genuine by the time he finds his voice again. An echo of vibrant knight of roses who passed through the mountains for his inane contests of strength has made it back, though he still remains muted. "You <span class="mu-i">wound</span> me, my lady - <span class="mu-i">wound</span> me! No, I can see the implication now, but <span class="mu-i">no</span>, there would be no sport, no romance in calling this debt for <span class="mu-i">that</span>. My lady, <span class="mu-i">Baroness</span> fon Liliendorf, what I desire now is not your sheathe, but your sword!"
You choke at his choice of words and the genuine sincerity behind them. Oh no. <span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-g">That misbegotten heretic is rubbing off on your with his prurient nonsense, infesting your mind</span></span></span>. Still, you have to say, "I'm sorry, Princeps, would... would you care to rephrase?"
The Princeps' smile fades just a bit as his words catch up to him. He admits, "You know, that sounded better in my head. But it's true none-the-less; I have need of a sword as mighty as yours, Lady Louise."
