"Choose wisely", Mongke told his son. Bayar looked up and down the short row of women. They were all around his age, but some were visibly more woman than the others. But he had to choose as his father said; wisely. This was the girl he would be married to, and spend his life with. Bayar was nervous, but he didn't let an inch of it show. His father had taught him properly to never show emotion in public. How one carried himself could often mean the difference between surviving and not surviving, in the tribes. The man was hard, he had to be hard, or else he could not be counted upon as a worthy ally. The steppe did not respect the soft. The steppe killed the soft, and so did the tribes, who were as much a part of the land as the grass itself.

Looking up and down the line, Bayar focused on appearing strong and wise. Whoever he chose, he would look like a man when he did it. His father had lectured him in what to look for in a girl, but he had also said that appearances could be deceiving. However well built a girl looked it was ultimately the inner strength that mattered, and only the eyes could speak truth. And so Bayar, with a large audience from both tribes present, decided he would look deeply into each and every one of their eyes.

The girls looked more nervous than him, but they didn't flinch at his attentions. The first in line was taller than he was, and looked more like a woman than a girl. Her broad hips and voluptuous chest beckoned his interest, but he looked into her eyes. And there, he saw truth. They were empty. Her blank eyes revealed no fire, no passion or strength. Bayar stepped away from her and looked back at his father, who nodded in agreement. This would not be the one. The next was about his age, but looked weak. There had been tears at her cheeks. He stepped further without a second thought.

This one, however, caught his interest. She was about his age, maybe a bit younger. She was pretty, but not in the way the first one had been. He looked into her eyes, seeing that she was nervous, but it wasn't of lack of strength, but there was an openess about her; an air of honesty. He felt he knew her already. "What is your name? I am Bayar", he said to her.

Bayar's own eyes were met by hers, the girls chin held high, and lips pressed into a thin line. Much like him, she was nervous, but her mother had always told her to be proud; tears did no good. The girl beside her was swallowing sobs, Odval could not help but to pity her, though not enough to spare her anything but a sideways glance. She was surprised when he stopped before her, having passed the first girl, who'd she'd thought to have much more allure to her than the gangly child she was. Still, his voice came quick, and after taking a moment to blink toward him, she answered, " Odval."

Feeling no need to continue, she kept looking into his eyes, lips pressing into a slight line. It took a lot not to look away, to glance toward his father's, or her own father that she knew to loom only a few short yards away. In the face, she appeared a handful of years his younger, with thin lips, large eyes, and a round, flat nose. Her black hair was parted back, having been allowed to grow long, the ends resting against her upper thighs.

All of this was odd to the girl, feeling the hot gaze of men she had known her entire life, mingle with the iciness of those she had never met. Still, they did not seem impressed by her, none of this would impress many, who only sought after war when the treaties of peace were being drawn. Nothing would appease them, except perhaps the heads of the people she loved, just as well as herself, presented to them on a stake. Odval forgot their hateful looks, knowing many of the men from her own tribe were eyeing Bayar with similar contempt.

He did well though despite it, and she'd not let her own composure crack while his heldfast.