It took all of Pythia's self control to stop her jaw from trembling in anger. She watched from a distance, only passingly aware of the people she was observing by reputation rather than personal acquaintance, and yet she knew enough to make her blood boil in her veins. There were family ties at work, brothers and sisters and daughters and sons; and yet their hearts held nothing but poison, their lips nothing but venom. These people were blood - worse, these people were family - and yet they spoke to each other without even the faintest ember of love. Pythia thought of her own family, of the way it valued love and loyalty above all else, and could not muster any sentiment towards these people other than pity and disgust.

Still, her sense of self control bode her to keep her silence, and her distance. It was not her place to interfere: not in these proceedings, nor in the precedings. She was there by invitation, extended to her by the sombre old man with the weary face and even wearier eyes. She knew who he was, knew what he represented, and could not even begin to fathom the honour being placed upon her by his request that she sit by his side. It was humbling; and anyone who thought otherwise was a fool.

She cast her eyes to the other companions: to Thesis' dutiful escort, and the subject of Vivienne's tactile affections. She caught sight of the respect in the former's eyes, and the total lack in the latter's. She took a cautious, tentative step closer to the escort, her voice and eyes kept low to avoid disturbing the woman he stood sentry beside.

"How can they have so little reverence," she asked him quietly, "In a place as hallowed as this?"