(Scars do not appear to be cause of death –shock ... - Bad Request

is your sad little path to feeling better about who you are, I suggest you just
give up, go home, and marry off into some courtier's harem!"
"I... I..."
Morte turned to me as if she was no longer there. "See, chief, I know what's
going to happen here. We all know Morte's right on the ball with this one.
But oh, no, proud little Desert Princess, cut down in public, humiliat-"
The woman drew her blade and, snarling like an enraged animal, lunged at
Morte.
I caught her hand just as a soft, melodious voice pierced the snarling.
"Young Sarhava? Sarhava Vhjul, could it be you?"
The young woman appeared confused for a moment, then recognized
Fall-from-Grace as she stepped down from the entrance to the Festhall, a
porcelain cup of tea in one hand and a saucer in the other. Sarhava stepped
back and sheathed her blade immediately, startled and abashed. "Mistress
Grace! I had not noticed you... only shamefully do I admit this, for your
noble appearance would be obvious to even a dullard."
Fall-From-Grace gave the barest of nods and set the cup down on a tray held
by one of the servers. Folding her hands in front of her she held herself,
statuesque. "Your words are most skillfully chosen, unlike those heard so
recently."
"Yes, Mistress... I regret that such words were spoken in your presence."
Sarhava bowed her head in shame.
"I regret they were spoken at all." Grace's tone barely changed, but the
subtle reprimand seemed to crack the young woman's face like a whip. "It
pains to see an old student of mine behaving so..."
"Eh..." She frowned, then regained her composure. "In any event, Mistress,
what brings you out of the establishment? Some errand?"
"These are my companions that I am traveling with. I would expect the same
courtesy given to them as you have given to me. Such is a hallmark and the
responsibility of those... noble-born."
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