Thorfrid, the sturdy and rather fearsome prince of the Northlands, stands on the far side of a lavishly decorated drawing room. A heavy wooden door in the corner creaks open, and emerging from it, the king of Mediterra, complete with his lavish robes and gracious smile. He gestures behind him to the line of young women standing, demure but excited, just outside the door.

"Noble Prince Thorfrid, I present to you the brightest and most beautiful young women our kingdom has to offer, that you may find a bride worthy of the peace and goodwill your kingdom has shown to us."

And beautiful specimens they are. Some fair, some dark, some short, some tall, some thin, some curvy. All are dressed in their finest gowns, with their most lavish up-dos, and their brightest smiles. All of them carry the same low hum of excitement between them; who wouldn't wish to be the beloved bride of a handsome, mysterious prince? They are introduced, about ten of them, one by one, as they line up for Thorfrid's discernment.

Last of all a servant, who, of course, has no introduction, nor place in line, slips in after them. Their place is in the corner behind all of the excitement, dusting a porcelain vase.

The moment the prince lays eyes on the unremarkable figure in the corner, it's as if time stops entirely. Whether he stared for seconds or hours, he knows not. Immediately, he turns to his father, and the royal advisor beside him, with a glimmer in his eye and a wag in his tail, more apt of a puppy than a fearsome warrior.

"That one! I choose that one."