The tavern, The Golden Ankh, stands at the edge of a bustling market square, its stone walls bathed in the warm glow of lanterns filled with flickering flame. With a thatched roof made of date palm fronds and large wooden beams adorned with intricate hieroglyphs, the building blends seamlessly into the surrounding desert town. From the outside, the faint sound of music and laughter spills into the night air, drawing in travelers and locals alike.
Inside, the tavern is dimly lit, with tapestries depicting the gods and pharaohs lining the walls. The air is thick with the scent of spiced meat roasting on open flames and the earthy aroma of fermented barley. The rough-hewn wooden tables are occupied by merchants, desert nomads, and adventurers, all gathering to share stories, music, and drinks. The floor is covered in woven rugs, some depicting the great river, others the distant pyramids and sphinxes that dominate the landscape. The soft strumming of a lyre and the rhythmic beat of a drum fill the space, while dancers twirl gracefully in the center, their movements as fluid as the river itself.
Behind the bar, a tall, slender woman with dark eyes and skin like polished ebony mixes a drink from a copper vessel, her hands moving with practiced grace. She serves patrons a golden drink, said to be a gift from the goddess Hathor herself—a sweet blend of honey, dates, and strong local wine. The walls echo with the sound of laughter and conversation in a mixture of ancient dialects, as the drink flows freely, and tales of lost tombs, ancient curses, and the desert's many dangers are exchanged with the ease of old friends.
At the far end of the tavern, a shadowy alcove serves as a meeting place for those with clandestine purposes—those seeking secrets, mercenary work, or artifacts that may have been stolen from the tombs of kings. The air there is heavier, with deals sealed in whispers and glances.
Above the bar hangs a large, ornate ankh, made of gold and encrusted with turquoise, its symbol both a charm against evil and a reminder of the gods' watchful eyes over all who come to seek refuge or revelry in The Golden Ankh.
Zephirah sat quietly at the edge of the bustling tavern, partially hidden in the soft shadows beneath the ornate golden ankh. Her gently curved horns reflected the flickering lantern-light, their shape distinct yet subtle. A simple silken veil, embroidered with desert motifs, partially concealed her face, though her expressive eyes remained visible, calmly observing the dancers with quiet interest.
Her fine garments were comfortably suited for travel, their colors bright but not overly flashy, reflecting her desert heritage. With practiced ease, her fingers softly plucked at her lyre, blending seamlessly into the tavern's ambient music, supportive yet unobtrusive.
Zephirah's lips curved slightly as she listened to conversations drifting around her, tales of ancient tombs and curses blending naturally into the background. Each whispered story became part of the quiet melody she played, a tune of curiosity and gentle introspection that reflected her own experiences.
She stood for a moment at the threshold, her frame wrapped in a simple robe of ochre and sand-grey, the colors of the desert before nightfall. A thin scarf of deep indigo was drawn loosely across her shoulders, dusted from travel. Her features—sharp, sun-kissed—were partially hidden beneath the hood that shadowed her curling horns.
The voices, the press of bodies, the motion—Too much. Too loud. The desert spoke in silence, in wind-carved stone and the hush of shifting sands. Here, every voice clamored for space, every movement disrupted the stillness she had long since learned to embrace.
She inhaled slowly.
Purpose drove her forward, step by measured step, until her gaze settled upon the woman beneath the great golden ankh.
The lyre’s melody was soft but steady, threading through the tavern’s noise like a whisper carried on the wind. Zahara's keen eyes noted the way her fingers moved—not seeking attention, but simply existing as part of the space, as if her music was woven into the fabric of the air itself. A presence both subtle and deliberate.
She approached without hesitation but without urgency.
Stopping at a respectful distance, she lowers her hood. A sign of trust. A sign of intent. Her features, angular and sharp, were as weathered as the desert she had called home, her golden-hued eyes unreadable as they met Zephirah’s.
“I have followed the river of whispers to its source,”she said, her voice low, deliberate—like the wind shifting through deep ravines. “It led me to you.”
A pause. A moment of silence, as if weighing each word before speaking again.
“My name is Zahara Ka'Dran. The sands whisperour paths must cross.”
She inclines her head slightly, a subtle gesture of respect. Then, she simply waits. Not pressing, not demanding—only watching.
Zephirah lifted her gaze, fingers still lightly dancing across her lyre as Zahara approached. Her eyes sparkled briefly with amused curiosity, lips curving into an inviting half-smile as she listened to the enigmatic greeting. "A river of whispers, you say?" Zephirah mused gently, her tone playful yet thoughtful. She let her fingers linger on the instrument’s strings, holding the last soft note. "That's possibly the most poetic way anyone has asked me for a dance—or a drink—in quite some time."
She tilted her head slightly, the silk veil shifting to reveal more of her sharp, expressive features. Her eyes studied Zahara openly, appreciating the measured strength and calm in the other tiefling’s demeanor. "So tell me, Zahara Ka'Dran," she continued softly, her voice effortlessly charming, "did these sands of fate merely suggest our paths cross for conversation, or might they hint at something more delightful? If it's the latter, I'm inclined to accept." Zephirah allowed the playful tension of her words to linger, her expression both inviting and gently teasing as she awaited Zahara's reply.
Zahara watches Zephirah closely, her expression as still as sand on a windless night. The lyre’s final note lingers in the air between them, delicate yet deliberate. Zephirah plays with words as easily as she does with melody—fluid, effortless. Zahara is not so careless with hers.
“I do not dance,”she says, her voice steady, measured. Not a refusal, but a simple truth. The desert does not move for amusement; it shifts with purpose.
A pause. Then, with the faintest flicker of dry amusement in her golden eyes, she adds, “And I do not drink what I have not studied.” A concession to Zephirah’s jest, though her tone remains as firm as the oven baked bricks forming the walls of the tavern.
She does not avert her gaze, meeting Zephirah’s open appraisal with quiet scrutiny of her own. “But the sands do not whisper of fleeting things,” she continues, her voice dropping just enough to carve a private space between them. “They speak of something buried—something waiting. A name carried by the wind, reaching my ears when it should have long since faded.”
For a moment, the tavern’s warmth and music seem distant, swallowed by the hush between them. Zahara leans in slightly, her presence as weighty as the desert before a storm.
“Tell me, Zephirah,” she murmurs, each word deliberate, “how familiar are you with things that should remain lost?”
Zephirah’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a subtle arch of her eyebrow, openly signaling her disappointment. "Ah, how unfortunate," she sighed softly, fingers briefly brushing her lyre’s strings as if considering another tune. "Everyone dances to someone's or something's melody, knowingly or unknowingly," she murmured, eyes narrowing in mild amusement. "Still, I'd rather discover things lost that perhaps shouldn't be—like your taste for a lively dance or a sweet drink. Surely indulging in the latter would make the former far easier," she added thoughtfully, a playful yet pointed challenge in her tone. "Perhaps the sands and whispers can remain outside tonight? Tomorrow morning, I'll return to their embrace—undoubtedly they’ll still be waiting. Tonight, however, was meant for simpler pleasures."
Zahara does not smile, but there is the faintest shift in her expression—an acknowledgment, a ripple beneath still waters. Zephirah speaks like the evening wind, subtly causing movement where there had been none, testing the weight of stone within its embrace. It is not the first time someone has tried to soften her edges, nor will it be the last.
Her golden eyes remain steady, unhurried. “You mistake me,”she says, voice low but certain. “The sands do not wait. They shift, they swallow, they erase. That is their nature.” She tilts her head slightly, considering Zephirah as one might an unfamiliar constellation—beautiful, perhaps even exotic but at the same time unfamiliar.
A moment of silence, then a small, almost imperceptible exhale—something that could be amusement, if one looked closely. “But if tonight is meant for simpler pleasures, I will not deny you yours.”
Zahara lifts a hand, fingers curling with measured intent as she gestures to the golden drink behind the bar. “One, then,”she concedes, her voice like the whisper of wind through ancient stone. “Not for indulgence."Her gaze flickers back to Zephirah, cool and unwavering. “For study.”
A test, perhaps, perhaps a quiet understanding passing between them. And though she does not say it, there is something in the way she watches Zephirah that suggests a deeper curiosity.
Zephirah's eyes sparkled briefly with amusement as the drink arrived, and with a graceful motion, she plucked a quiet melody on her lyre. Leaning forward just slightly, her voice emerged softly, clear enough only for Zahara’s ears, blending effortlessly with the low hum of the tavern: "Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry…" with a clear intend to mimic what the drink might whisper to Zahara. She sang the next line softly, her eyes watching Zahara carefully: "You don't know how lovely you are."
When Zahara's fingers touched the glass, Zephirah's tone took on a playful, knowing edge, emphasizing her words with gentle precision: "I had to find you, tell you I need you,"Her voice lowered further, warm and intimate, her expression openly amused: "Tell you I set you apart."
As Zahara tasted the drink, Zephirah's eyes danced with subtle triumph, and though the next line came only as a fleeting thought, its presence lingered in the air between them: "Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions…"The melody faded quietly with the last line slowing down and fading to a whisper: "Oh, let's go back to the start..."
Zephirah smiled knowingly, a cocky yet charming look in her eyes.
Zahara lifts the glass slowly, the scent of honey and dates rising to meet her like a warm desert breeze. The first sip is rich—golden sweetness tempered by the deep, heady strength of the wine. She lets it linger on her tongue, absorbing the taste as much as the weight of Zephirah’s voice, the lyrics curling around her like a beckoning hand.
Her golden eyes flick toward the bard, unreadable for a moment, as if considering the offer woven into the song’s notes. The warmth of the drink settles in her chest, but it is the deliberate choice of words—I had to find you, tell you I need you—that stirs something deeper.
Setting the glass down with slow precision, Zahara extends her free hand, palm up. A soft breeze stirs at her fingertips, desert blossoms appear, the scent of lavender fills the space between them—a response, an acknowledgment. She doesn’t speak immediately, allowing the magic to linger, creating an unspoken familiarity between them. The petals swirl before vanishing into the air, as short-lived as a whispered promise.
Zahara’s gaze lingers on Zephirah, steady and knowing. “You do not go unnoticed, Zephirah,”she says, her voice quiet yet sure. “Nor does your song.”
She lifts the glass once more, a subtle toast, before taking another sip, her lips curve—not quite a smile, but something close.
A woman wearing splint armor beneath a plain greyish-green cloak walks into the The Golden Ankh. She takes several steps in before stepping to the side and pausing as her eyes adjust to the dimly lit place. A rounded shield rests against her back, along with a heavy pack. At her side is a flail. From the dust on her worn cloak, it seems she may have been traveling for some time. She breathes in a bit of the aroma of spiced meats, which sets her stomach rumbling a bit.
Eventually she moves again, making for the ebony skinned woman behind the bar. As she walks her eyes start to glance about, noting the musicians, lingering a bit on the twirling dancers, then surveying the patrons. When she finally reaches the bar, she speaks to the woman there. "Hi. I'm looking for my friend here. Zephirah? A tiefling woman?"As her stomach grumbles again she adds,"And do you have perhaps a small bite of something I could eat?"
Even as she had asked her last question, she spots the pair of tieflings conversing beneath the ornate ankh, not far away. "Never mind, I think I see her," she says to the lady behind the bar as she starts to move over to where they are located. She just catches a snippet of the end of Zephirah's song and the other's reply. "Hey there, I hope I am not interrupting anything."
Shimmering violet her eyes and shimmering violet the weed that strangles her waist in a cinch, Ophelia stands strangely alone, alone in The Golden Ankh like a child, gazing awkwardly up unawares, bow slung at her back and lips parted so, so gently, as a flower before the dawn.
Near her, and yet immeasurably far away, the lucid companions meet, new and old. In a soft daze, she approaches, graceful and graceless all at once.
Do they feel it too perhaps? The need, the need. It yet survives in the sands, stamped on what remains, lifeless, lifeless yet not. Shall I walk the world in a bliss of not-knowing? Shall dead flowers beweep my grave? While from the dim lit halls of other places forms that never were and never could be writhe for the impatience of the few who never saw what could have been... No. No. Wait. What had the one said to the other? Just here, just now...
Aloud, she murmurs.
"How should I your true love know from another one? By her cockle hat and staff, and her sandal sho..."
Trailing off, Ophelia's gaze finally lowers to almost meet their eyes uncertainly, not comprehending herself the source of her own words. She tries to smile.
Zephirah's eyes brightened warmly as Satina approached, her lips curving into a genuine smile. "Satina! You're just in time," she greeted, her voice inviting and subtly playful. Her mind briefly drifted to their recent shared adventures, recalling how Satina's confident strength had often proven invaluable—even when its main use had simply been to discourage unwanted attention. Indeed, Zephirah mused inwardly, having strength nearby was always wise—sometimes for practical reasons, sometimes simply for the reassuring presence that silently kept trouble at bay.
"Please, join us," she continued smoothly, gesturing gracefully toward an empty chair. She leaned forward conspiratorially, her eyes twinkling as she glanced from Satina to Zahara. "We're conducting some very important experiments with beverages this evening—strictly scholarly, of course," she explained with playful seriousness, giving Zahara a knowing yet gentle smile. With a conspiratorial wrinkling of her nose and a soft chuckle, Zephirah subtly signaled the tavern maid, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper aimed at Zahara. "We’ll surely need additional raw material for our research. After all, thorough study requires more than a single sip." Her tone remained effortlessly charming, masking the gentle encouragement within her playful banter.
Zephirah stretched her neck slightly to peer past Satina, eyebrows raised in intrigue at the softly murmured words drifting from behind. A mischievous smile curled her lips as her gaze fell upon Ophelia, noticing the elf's dreamy expression and awkward grace. For a brief moment, her fingers softly brushed the strings of her lyre, echoing the elf’s murmured melody. Zephirah’s voice was calm, contemplative, and welcoming: "Some truths are best known through song, others perhaps by the silence between verses. Tell me—" she asked gently, fixing Ophelia with a softly encouraging gaze, as if experimenting aloud with a new lyric: "In cockle hats and sandal shoes, true love walks or merely woos?"
Zahara’s fingers still upon her glass as her gaze flickers toward the source of footsteps. A warrior—no, a protector—wrapped in the dust of long travel, tempered in purpose. Splint armor, shield, flail. Someone accustomed to carrying burdens, both seen and unseen.
Then, another presence. A different rhythm. The drifting, uncertain cadence of a mind that does not walk the world in straight lines. The elf, moves as if caught between waking and dreaming.
Zahara exhales softly, setting her glass down as she acknowledges the arrivals with a quiet nod. “No interruption,”she says simply, her voice even, steady. She does not offer her name immediately. Names carry weight. Names are promises. Instead, she observes. Satina—practical, sturdy, direct. Ophelia—ethereal, tangled in something only half-spoken.
Her gaze flickers back to Zephirah as the bard’s voice turns conspiratorial, her teasing laced with invitation. A scholar of indulgence, is she? Or merely a collector of moments?Zahara’ lifts her glass once more, tilting it slightly toward Satina.
Zephirah turns to Ophelia, matching verse with verse, and Zahara watches the interplay with quiet intrigue. This, then, is her way—invitation through melody, drawing others into her rhythm.
As Zephirah poses her lyrical question, Zahara shifts slightly, letting her fingers brush against the wooden surface of the table. A pulse of soft warmth blooms there—a brief whisper of Druidcraft—and a single, delicate petal of desert jasmine unfurls upon its surface.
Zahara lets the moment settle, allowing the delicate petal of jasmine to rest between them—a silent bridge between words and meaning.
“I am Zahara Ka’Dran,”she offers at last, her voice measured, carrying the weight of something old yet unshaken. “Traveler. Healer. Seeker of things lost and forgotten.”
She lifts her glass in a subtle toast, her expression unreadable yet not unkind. “It seems the road has brought us to the same place. May it prove an interesting one.”
At the far end of the bar, within the shadowed alcove, a lone figure has claimed the table. He has been observing you since you entered. A dark hood is drawn over his head, but his eyes are a piercing amber that almost glow in the dim light cast by the lanterns. He is dressed in dark robes with a flowing black cloak lined with indigo silk. His attire is simple, but well-tailored, and his ornate jewelry, a scarab amulet about his neck and a serpentine golden ring wrapped around his index finger, suggest that he is a person of wealth. He nods his head and subtly extends a hand, inviting you to claim a seat beside him.
Zephirah caught the subtle gesture from the hooded figure across the tavern but maintained an effortlessly composed expression, pointedly disregarding the invitation. Answering a mere wave of the hand implied a concession she was unwilling to grant—an acknowledgment of control that she simply did not entertain. If they wished to speak, they'd need to approach openly, or, at least, more extravagantly.
Still, beneath her calm exterior, she remained discreetly aware, her eyes occasionally flickering toward the shadowed alcove with feigned casualness. Whoever sought her attention could either find the courage to approach or remain at a respectful distance, where mysterious gestures belonged. Zephirah lifted her lyre lightly, returning her focus gracefully to her companions, fully prepared yet unbothered, subtly watching to see if the mysterious figure would rise to the unspoken challenge.
Satina quickly returns Zephirah's smile with one of her own. "Just in time for what?" She too couldn't help but think to their time together. She felt much more comfortable with the tiefling around. Satina might be the intimidating presence, but Zephirah's skills were extremely useful as well. She definitely was more confident knowing she was near at hand. Plus, she had proven to be a fun traveling companion!
"Experiments?" she wondered aloud as Zephirah had continued. She knew better than to try to unravel the statement. Or the words that followed to the other tiefling in the conversation. She simply listened.
At least, until Zephirah seemed to be looking past her at something. She spun about and Satina found herself face to face with this newcomer. Her eyes widen as she sees the woman's shimmering violet eyes. Her breath catches and she seems almost entranced as the words from Zaephirah's song full her head.
The moment passes and she catches Zahara introducing herself. Gathering herself, she replies in turn, though she's still facing the more dream-like stranger. "I'm Satina Cindermark," she says softly. "Indeed, the road has brought us to the same place."
Satina notes the beckoning figure, but initially ignores him. She turns to Zephirah first, trying to guage whether she had seen the same thing.
Zahara does not immediately move, instead letting the moment stretch as she takes her cue from Zephirah and Satina. The invitation is clear, but neither of them rises to meet it, and so she lingers, watching.
Zephirah remains poised, her focus seemingly unbroken, though Zahara knows better than to take that at face value. Satina, too, acknowledges the man’s presence, but she does not act, a waiting game of sorts.
She lets her gaze drift back toward the stranger, her golden eyes catching the gleam of his jewelry. The scarab amulet is finely crafted, its symbolism layered, though whether it speaks of protection, wealth, or something more esoteric remains to be seen. It is the ring, however, that truly draws her attention. The golden serpent coils around his finger with a deliberate elegance. Symbols hold power, and she wonders what this one means to him.
She considers for a moment, then makes her decision.
Rising smoothly, Zahara does not immediately go to him. Instead, she crosses the tavern at a measured pace, moving as though her purpose is not yet entirely decided. She approaches without haste, giving the man time to either reaffirm his invitation or withdraw it. If he is merely testing the waters, she will not chase the current.
If he holds his ground, she will take the offered seat, her posture composed but open, golden eyes settling on his with quiet curiosity.
“You have been watching us for some time,” she says, her voice smooth, neither accusing nor yielding. Her gaze flickers, deliberately, to the ring on his finger before returning to his face. “I wonder if your interest lies in conversation… or something more.”
She waits, watching him carefully—not only his words but his movements, the way he holds himself, the weight of his silence. And, in the quiet space between, she contemplates the serpent, turning over its meaning in her mind, seeking the echoes of any religious significance it might hold.
Zephirah’s expression briefly softened into disappointment as Zahara rose and approached the mysterious stranger, her golden eyes tracking Zahara’s measured steps across the tavern. However, she quickly composed herself, a playful smile reclaiming her lips as she turned her attention back to Satina.
With a gentle roll of her eyes, Zephirah leaned closer to Satina and murmured conspiratorially, "It appears someone’s attention span is shorter than I hoped—perhaps certain scholarly pursuits require more patience than she can spare." Her voice was teasing, amused rather than truly hurt, her confidence quickly restored by remembering how easily she’d already intrigued Zahara.
She paused briefly, letting the jest settle before tilting her head thoughtfully toward the hooded figure. "Now tell me, Satina," she said softly, her curiosity evident, "what do you make of our mysterious friend who so desperately begs for our attention?"
"...so that is why we know the pyramids of old was a phallos expression."A scholarly voice states as a matter-of-factly, ending what seems to be a lecture of sorts, the scholarly voice perhaps surprisingly belonging to a tiny bluish feline creature with almost ethereal blue wings and an impressive set of blue tails. The tiny sphinx is comfortably curled up on the shoulder of a young dark-haired woman in a white dress with golden accessories that steps into the The Golden Ankh, stopping briefly to take in the view of the tavern as well as it's sounds and it's scents. The young dark-haired woman carries a leather shoulder bag and has a simple curved blade tucked under her belt, carrying herself with a calm confidence as she surveys the scene. "Men and their insecurities." She says with a soft laugh, accepting a golden drink from the bar as her dark brown eyes scan the crowd for what she seeks. "What are the chances we would find the group we're looking for and we don't have to endure the company of any insecure men do you think dear Thoth?" She asks with a grin the tiny sphinx on her shoulder who only responds by rolling his eyes.
“You have been watching us for some time,” she says, her voice smooth, neither accusing nor yielding. Her gaze flickers, deliberately, to the ring on his finger before returning to his face. “I wonder if your interest lies in conversation… or something more.”
The man smiles at Zahara as she glides across the room, holding her golden eyes with his own amber. He seems entirely at ease, as if one who is accustomed to his wishes being obeyed, or else who is comfortable with rejection. Whether fascinated, relieved, or otherwise, his smile only widens as the tiefling takes a seat. He reaches up, drawing back his hood. He might be middle-aged, but his sun-kissed, bronze skin is smooth and ageless. He has a well-groomed beard, oiled and gleaming in the soft light. It accentuates his high cheekbones. His hair, jet-black, is shoulder-length and tied back with a golden serpent clasp. His frankincense perfume wafts across the table, not so much presenting itself as commanding attention.
Zahara, all others Perception DC 15:
“I have a good eye for investments,” he replies cheerily, with a wink. “Especially those of a, ah, speculative nature. Your friends are the discerning sort, and it seems they have not appraised me highly. But, I must appear a speculative investment myself! Of time, of attention. But I am hopeful. Tell me, what drew you to my table ahead of the others? I notice you eye my ring. Do you have a fondness for the gold, or for the serpent?”
His eyes suddenly dart to the tavern's entrance. He gasps involuntarily. "What a marvelous sphinx!"
Osirion
City of Eto
The tavern, The Golden Ankh, stands at the edge of a bustling market square, its stone walls bathed in the warm glow of lanterns filled with flickering flame. With a thatched roof made of date palm fronds and large wooden beams adorned with intricate hieroglyphs, the building blends seamlessly into the surrounding desert town. From the outside, the faint sound of music and laughter spills into the night air, drawing in travelers and locals alike.
Inside, the tavern is dimly lit, with tapestries depicting the gods and pharaohs lining the walls. The air is thick with the scent of spiced meat roasting on open flames and the earthy aroma of fermented barley. The rough-hewn wooden tables are occupied by merchants, desert nomads, and adventurers, all gathering to share stories, music, and drinks. The floor is covered in woven rugs, some depicting the great river, others the distant pyramids and sphinxes that dominate the landscape. The soft strumming of a lyre and the rhythmic beat of a drum fill the space, while dancers twirl gracefully in the center, their movements as fluid as the river itself.
Behind the bar, a tall, slender woman with dark eyes and skin like polished ebony mixes a drink from a copper vessel, her hands moving with practiced grace. She serves patrons a golden drink, said to be a gift from the goddess Hathor herself—a sweet blend of honey, dates, and strong local wine. The walls echo with the sound of laughter and conversation in a mixture of ancient dialects, as the drink flows freely, and tales of lost tombs, ancient curses, and the desert's many dangers are exchanged with the ease of old friends.
At the far end of the tavern, a shadowy alcove serves as a meeting place for those with clandestine purposes—those seeking secrets, mercenary work, or artifacts that may have been stolen from the tombs of kings. The air there is heavier, with deals sealed in whispers and glances.
Above the bar hangs a large, ornate ankh, made of gold and encrusted with turquoise, its symbol both a charm against evil and a reminder of the gods' watchful eyes over all who come to seek refuge or revelry in The Golden Ankh.
Zephirah sat quietly at the edge of the bustling tavern, partially hidden in the soft shadows beneath the ornate golden ankh. Her gently curved horns reflected the flickering lantern-light, their shape distinct yet subtle. A simple silken veil, embroidered with desert motifs, partially concealed her face, though her expressive eyes remained visible, calmly observing the dancers with quiet interest.
Her fine garments were comfortably suited for travel, their colors bright but not overly flashy, reflecting her desert heritage. With practiced ease, her fingers softly plucked at her lyre, blending seamlessly into the tavern's ambient music, supportive yet unobtrusive.
Zephirah's lips curved slightly as she listened to conversations drifting around her, tales of ancient tombs and curses blending naturally into the background. Each whispered story became part of the quiet melody she played, a tune of curiosity and gentle introspection that reflected her own experiences.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
She stood for a moment at the threshold, her frame wrapped in a simple robe of ochre and sand-grey, the colors of the desert before nightfall. A thin scarf of deep indigo was drawn loosely across her shoulders, dusted from travel. Her features—sharp, sun-kissed—were partially hidden beneath the hood that shadowed her curling horns.
The voices, the press of bodies, the motion—Too much. Too loud. The desert spoke in silence, in wind-carved stone and the hush of shifting sands. Here, every voice clamored for space, every movement disrupted the stillness she had long since learned to embrace.
She inhaled slowly.
Purpose drove her forward, step by measured step, until her gaze settled upon the woman beneath the great golden ankh.
The lyre’s melody was soft but steady, threading through the tavern’s noise like a whisper carried on the wind. Zahara's keen eyes noted the way her fingers moved—not seeking attention, but simply existing as part of the space, as if her music was woven into the fabric of the air itself. A presence both subtle and deliberate.
She approached without hesitation but without urgency.
Stopping at a respectful distance, she lowers her hood. A sign of trust. A sign of intent. Her features, angular and sharp, were as weathered as the desert she had called home, her golden-hued eyes unreadable as they met Zephirah’s.
“I have followed the river of whispers to its source,” she said, her voice low, deliberate—like the wind shifting through deep ravines. “It led me to you.”
A pause. A moment of silence, as if weighing each word before speaking again.
“My name is Zahara Ka'Dran. The sands whisper our paths must cross.”
She inclines her head slightly, a subtle gesture of respect. Then, she simply waits. Not pressing, not demanding—only watching.
Zephirah lifted her gaze, fingers still lightly dancing across her lyre as Zahara approached. Her eyes sparkled briefly with amused curiosity, lips curving into an inviting half-smile as she listened to the enigmatic greeting. "A river of whispers, you say?" Zephirah mused gently, her tone playful yet thoughtful. She let her fingers linger on the instrument’s strings, holding the last soft note. "That's possibly the most poetic way anyone has asked me for a dance—or a drink—in quite some time."
She tilted her head slightly, the silk veil shifting to reveal more of her sharp, expressive features. Her eyes studied Zahara openly, appreciating the measured strength and calm in the other tiefling’s demeanor. "So tell me, Zahara Ka'Dran," she continued softly, her voice effortlessly charming, "did these sands of fate merely suggest our paths cross for conversation, or might they hint at something more delightful? If it's the latter, I'm inclined to accept." Zephirah allowed the playful tension of her words to linger, her expression both inviting and gently teasing as she awaited Zahara's reply.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Zahara watches Zephirah closely, her expression as still as sand on a windless night. The lyre’s final note lingers in the air between them, delicate yet deliberate. Zephirah plays with words as easily as she does with melody—fluid, effortless. Zahara is not so careless with hers.
“I do not dance,” she says, her voice steady, measured. Not a refusal, but a simple truth. The desert does not move for amusement; it shifts with purpose.
A pause. Then, with the faintest flicker of dry amusement in her golden eyes, she adds, “And I do not drink what I have not studied.” A concession to Zephirah’s jest, though her tone remains as firm as the oven baked bricks forming the walls of the tavern.
She does not avert her gaze, meeting Zephirah’s open appraisal with quiet scrutiny of her own. “But the sands do not whisper of fleeting things,” she continues, her voice dropping just enough to carve a private space between them. “They speak of something buried—something waiting. A name carried by the wind, reaching my ears when it should have long since faded.”
For a moment, the tavern’s warmth and music seem distant, swallowed by the hush between them. Zahara leans in slightly, her presence as weighty as the desert before a storm.
“Tell me, Zephirah,” she murmurs, each word deliberate, “how familiar are you with things that should remain lost?”
Zephirah’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a subtle arch of her eyebrow, openly signaling her disappointment. "Ah, how unfortunate," she sighed softly, fingers briefly brushing her lyre’s strings as if considering another tune. "Everyone dances to someone's or something's melody, knowingly or unknowingly," she murmured, eyes narrowing in mild amusement. "Still, I'd rather discover things lost that perhaps shouldn't be—like your taste for a lively dance or a sweet drink. Surely indulging in the latter would make the former far easier," she added thoughtfully, a playful yet pointed challenge in her tone. "Perhaps the sands and whispers can remain outside tonight? Tomorrow morning, I'll return to their embrace—undoubtedly they’ll still be waiting. Tonight, however, was meant for simpler pleasures."
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Zahara does not smile, but there is the faintest shift in her expression—an acknowledgment, a ripple beneath still waters. Zephirah speaks like the evening wind, subtly causing movement where there had been none, testing the weight of stone within its embrace. It is not the first time someone has tried to soften her edges, nor will it be the last.
Her golden eyes remain steady, unhurried. “You mistake me,” she says, voice low but certain. “The sands do not wait. They shift, they swallow, they erase. That is their nature.” She tilts her head slightly, considering Zephirah as one might an unfamiliar constellation—beautiful, perhaps even exotic but at the same time unfamiliar.
A moment of silence, then a small, almost imperceptible exhale—something that could be amusement, if one looked closely. “But if tonight is meant for simpler pleasures, I will not deny you yours.”
Zahara lifts a hand, fingers curling with measured intent as she gestures to the golden drink behind the bar. “One, then,” she concedes, her voice like the whisper of wind through ancient stone. “Not for indulgence." Her gaze flickers back to Zephirah, cool and unwavering. “For study.”
A test, perhaps, perhaps a quiet understanding passing between them. And though she does not say it, there is something in the way she watches Zephirah that suggests a deeper curiosity.
Zephirah's eyes sparkled briefly with amusement as the drink arrived, and with a graceful motion, she plucked a quiet melody on her lyre. Leaning forward just slightly, her voice emerged softly, clear enough only for Zahara’s ears, blending effortlessly with the low hum of the tavern: "Come up to meet you, tell you I'm sorry…" with a clear intend to mimic what the drink might whisper to Zahara. She sang the next line softly, her eyes watching Zahara carefully: "You don't know how lovely you are."
When Zahara's fingers touched the glass, Zephirah's tone took on a playful, knowing edge, emphasizing her words with gentle precision: "I had to find you, tell you I need you," Her voice lowered further, warm and intimate, her expression openly amused: "Tell you I set you apart."
As Zahara tasted the drink, Zephirah's eyes danced with subtle triumph, and though the next line came only as a fleeting thought, its presence lingered in the air between them: "Tell me your secrets and ask me your questions…" The melody faded quietly with the last line slowing down and fading to a whisper: "Oh, let's go back to the start..."
Zephirah smiled knowingly, a cocky yet charming look in her eyes.
(Kudos to Coldplay for "The Scientist": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yw20p3dzceI)
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Zahara lifts the glass slowly, the scent of honey and dates rising to meet her like a warm desert breeze. The first sip is rich—golden sweetness tempered by the deep, heady strength of the wine. She lets it linger on her tongue, absorbing the taste as much as the weight of Zephirah’s voice, the lyrics curling around her like a beckoning hand.
Her golden eyes flick toward the bard, unreadable for a moment, as if considering the offer woven into the song’s notes. The warmth of the drink settles in her chest, but it is the deliberate choice of words—I had to find you, tell you I need you—that stirs something deeper.
Setting the glass down with slow precision, Zahara extends her free hand, palm up. A soft breeze stirs at her fingertips, desert blossoms appear, the scent of lavender fills the space between them—a response, an acknowledgment. She doesn’t speak immediately, allowing the magic to linger, creating an unspoken familiarity between them. The petals swirl before vanishing into the air, as short-lived as a whispered promise.
Zahara’s gaze lingers on Zephirah, steady and knowing. “You do not go unnoticed, Zephirah,” she says, her voice quiet yet sure. “Nor does your song.”
She lifts the glass once more, a subtle toast, before taking another sip, her lips curve—not quite a smile, but something close.
A woman wearing splint armor beneath a plain greyish-green cloak walks into the The Golden Ankh. She takes several steps in before stepping to the side and pausing as her eyes adjust to the dimly lit place. A rounded shield rests against her back, along with a heavy pack. At her side is a flail. From the dust on her worn cloak, it seems she may have been traveling for some time. She breathes in a bit of the aroma of spiced meats, which sets her stomach rumbling a bit.
Eventually she moves again, making for the ebony skinned woman behind the bar. As she walks her eyes start to glance about, noting the musicians, lingering a bit on the twirling dancers, then surveying the patrons. When she finally reaches the bar, she speaks to the woman there. "Hi. I'm looking for my friend here. Zephirah? A tiefling woman?" As her stomach grumbles again she adds, "And do you have perhaps a small bite of something I could eat?"
Even as she had asked her last question, she spots the pair of tieflings conversing beneath the ornate ankh, not far away. "Never mind, I think I see her," she says to the lady behind the bar as she starts to move over to where they are located. She just catches a snippet of the end of Zephirah's song and the other's reply. "Hey there, I hope I am not interrupting anything."
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi ||
Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue
Shimmering violet her eyes and shimmering violet the weed that strangles her waist in a cinch, Ophelia stands strangely alone, alone in The Golden Ankh like a child, gazing awkwardly up unawares, bow slung at her back and lips parted so, so gently, as a flower before the dawn.
Near her, and yet immeasurably far away, the lucid companions meet, new and old. In a soft daze, she approaches, graceful and graceless all at once.
Do they feel it too perhaps? The need, the need. It yet survives in the sands, stamped on what remains, lifeless, lifeless yet not. Shall I walk the world in a bliss of not-knowing? Shall dead flowers beweep my grave? While from the dim lit halls of other places forms that never were and never could be writhe for the impatience of the few who never saw what could have been... No. No. Wait. What had the one said to the other? Just here, just now...
Aloud, she murmurs.
"How should I your true love know from another one?
By her cockle hat and staff, and her sandal sho..."
Trailing off, Ophelia's gaze finally lowers to almost meet their eyes uncertainly, not comprehending herself the source of her own words. She tries to smile.
Inge(Barbarian2):Krayveneer's After the Fall| Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1):Uhtred's Windward Isles| Xarian(Fighter1):NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4):Vos' Beyond the Veil| Soren(Druid5):Bartjeebus' Ravenloft| Nivi(Rogue4):Raiketsu's CoS| Ophelia(Sorcerer3):Ashen_Age's Risen from the Sands
Joren(Fighter6):NotDrizzt's Simple Request| Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4):MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return| Sabetha(Monk3):Bedlymn's Murder Court
Zephirah's eyes brightened warmly as Satina approached, her lips curving into a genuine smile. "Satina! You're just in time," she greeted, her voice inviting and subtly playful. Her mind briefly drifted to their recent shared adventures, recalling how Satina's confident strength had often proven invaluable—even when its main use had simply been to discourage unwanted attention. Indeed, Zephirah mused inwardly, having strength nearby was always wise—sometimes for practical reasons, sometimes simply for the reassuring presence that silently kept trouble at bay.
"Please, join us," she continued smoothly, gesturing gracefully toward an empty chair. She leaned forward conspiratorially, her eyes twinkling as she glanced from Satina to Zahara. "We're conducting some very important experiments with beverages this evening—strictly scholarly, of course," she explained with playful seriousness, giving Zahara a knowing yet gentle smile. With a conspiratorial wrinkling of her nose and a soft chuckle, Zephirah subtly signaled the tavern maid, her voice dropping to a teasing whisper aimed at Zahara. "We’ll surely need additional raw material for our research. After all, thorough study requires more than a single sip." Her tone remained effortlessly charming, masking the gentle encouragement within her playful banter.
Zephirah stretched her neck slightly to peer past Satina, eyebrows raised in intrigue at the softly murmured words drifting from behind. A mischievous smile curled her lips as her gaze fell upon Ophelia, noticing the elf's dreamy expression and awkward grace. For a brief moment, her fingers softly brushed the strings of her lyre, echoing the elf’s murmured melody. Zephirah’s voice was calm, contemplative, and welcoming: "Some truths are best known through song, others perhaps by the silence between verses. Tell me—" she asked gently, fixing Ophelia with a softly encouraging gaze, as if experimenting aloud with a new lyric: "In cockle hats and sandal shoes, true love walks or merely woos?"
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Zahara’s fingers still upon her glass as her gaze flickers toward the source of footsteps. A warrior—no, a protector—wrapped in the dust of long travel, tempered in purpose. Splint armor, shield, flail. Someone accustomed to carrying burdens, both seen and unseen.
Then, another presence. A different rhythm. The drifting, uncertain cadence of a mind that does not walk the world in straight lines. The elf, moves as if caught between waking and dreaming.
Zahara exhales softly, setting her glass down as she acknowledges the arrivals with a quiet nod. “No interruption,” she says simply, her voice even, steady. She does not offer her name immediately. Names carry weight. Names are promises. Instead, she observes. Satina—practical, sturdy, direct. Ophelia—ethereal, tangled in something only half-spoken.
Her gaze flickers back to Zephirah as the bard’s voice turns conspiratorial, her teasing laced with invitation. A scholar of indulgence, is she? Or merely a collector of moments? Zahara’ lifts her glass once more, tilting it slightly toward Satina.
Zephirah turns to Ophelia, matching verse with verse, and Zahara watches the interplay with quiet intrigue. This, then, is her way—invitation through melody, drawing others into her rhythm.
As Zephirah poses her lyrical question, Zahara shifts slightly, letting her fingers brush against the wooden surface of the table. A pulse of soft warmth blooms there—a brief whisper of Druidcraft—and a single, delicate petal of desert jasmine unfurls upon its surface.
Zahara lets the moment settle, allowing the delicate petal of jasmine to rest between them—a silent bridge between words and meaning.
“I am Zahara Ka’Dran,” she offers at last, her voice measured, carrying the weight of something old yet unshaken. “Traveler. Healer. Seeker of things lost and forgotten.”
She lifts her glass in a subtle toast, her expression unreadable yet not unkind. “It seems the road has brought us to the same place. May it prove an interesting one.”
Perception DC 10:
At the far end of the bar, within the shadowed alcove, a lone figure has claimed the table. He has been observing you since you entered. A dark hood is drawn over his head, but his eyes are a piercing amber that almost glow in the dim light cast by the lanterns. He is dressed in dark robes with a flowing black cloak lined with indigo silk. His attire is simple, but well-tailored, and his ornate jewelry, a scarab amulet about his neck and a serpentine golden ring wrapped around his index finger, suggest that he is a person of wealth. He nods his head and subtly extends a hand, inviting you to claim a seat beside him.
Zephirah caught the subtle gesture from the hooded figure across the tavern but maintained an effortlessly composed expression, pointedly disregarding the invitation. Answering a mere wave of the hand implied a concession she was unwilling to grant—an acknowledgment of control that she simply did not entertain. If they wished to speak, they'd need to approach openly, or, at least, more extravagantly.
Still, beneath her calm exterior, she remained discreetly aware, her eyes occasionally flickering toward the shadowed alcove with feigned casualness. Whoever sought her attention could either find the courage to approach or remain at a respectful distance, where mysterious gestures belonged. Zephirah lifted her lyre lightly, returning her focus gracefully to her companions, fully prepared yet unbothered, subtly watching to see if the mysterious figure would rise to the unspoken challenge.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Satina quickly returns Zephirah's smile with one of her own. "Just in time for what?" She too couldn't help but think to their time together. She felt much more comfortable with the tiefling around. Satina might be the intimidating presence, but Zephirah's skills were extremely useful as well. She definitely was more confident knowing she was near at hand. Plus, she had proven to be a fun traveling companion!
"Experiments?" she wondered aloud as Zephirah had continued. She knew better than to try to unravel the statement. Or the words that followed to the other tiefling in the conversation. She simply listened.
At least, until Zephirah seemed to be looking past her at something. She spun about and Satina found herself face to face with this newcomer. Her eyes widen as she sees the woman's shimmering violet eyes. Her breath catches and she seems almost entranced as the words from Zaephirah's song full her head.
The moment passes and she catches Zahara introducing herself. Gathering herself, she replies in turn, though she's still facing the more dream-like stranger. "I'm Satina Cindermark," she says softly. "Indeed, the road has brought us to the same place."
Satina notes the beckoning figure, but initially ignores him. She turns to Zephirah first, trying to guage whether she had seen the same thing.
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Liivi Orav, Barbarian || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi ||
Neital Rhessil, Wizard || Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Roxana Raincrest, Rogue || Satina Cindermark, Fighter || Meira Dheran, Rogue
Zahara does not immediately move, instead letting the moment stretch as she takes her cue from Zephirah and Satina. The invitation is clear, but neither of them rises to meet it, and so she lingers, watching.
Zephirah remains poised, her focus seemingly unbroken, though Zahara knows better than to take that at face value. Satina, too, acknowledges the man’s presence, but she does not act, a waiting game of sorts.
She lets her gaze drift back toward the stranger, her golden eyes catching the gleam of his jewelry. The scarab amulet is finely crafted, its symbolism layered, though whether it speaks of protection, wealth, or something more esoteric remains to be seen. It is the ring, however, that truly draws her attention. The golden serpent coils around his finger with a deliberate elegance. Symbols hold power, and she wonders what this one means to him.
She considers for a moment, then makes her decision.
Rising smoothly, Zahara does not immediately go to him. Instead, she crosses the tavern at a measured pace, moving as though her purpose is not yet entirely decided. She approaches without haste, giving the man time to either reaffirm his invitation or withdraw it. If he is merely testing the waters, she will not chase the current.
If he holds his ground, she will take the offered seat, her posture composed but open, golden eyes settling on his with quiet curiosity.
“You have been watching us for some time,” she says, her voice smooth, neither accusing nor yielding. Her gaze flickers, deliberately, to the ring on his finger before returning to his face. “I wonder if your interest lies in conversation… or something more.”
She waits, watching him carefully—not only his words but his movements, the way he holds himself, the weight of his silence. And, in the quiet space between, she contemplates the serpent, turning over its meaning in her mind, seeking the echoes of any religious significance it might hold.
Religion Check on jewelry: 3
Zephirah’s expression briefly softened into disappointment as Zahara rose and approached the mysterious stranger, her golden eyes tracking Zahara’s measured steps across the tavern. However, she quickly composed herself, a playful smile reclaiming her lips as she turned her attention back to Satina.
With a gentle roll of her eyes, Zephirah leaned closer to Satina and murmured conspiratorially, "It appears someone’s attention span is shorter than I hoped—perhaps certain scholarly pursuits require more patience than she can spare." Her voice was teasing, amused rather than truly hurt, her confidence quickly restored by remembering how easily she’d already intrigued Zahara.
She paused briefly, letting the jest settle before tilting her head thoughtfully toward the hooded figure. "Now tell me, Satina," she said softly, her curiosity evident, "what do you make of our mysterious friend who so desperately begs for our attention?"
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
"...so that is why we know the pyramids of old was a phallos expression." A scholarly voice states as a matter-of-factly, ending what seems to be a lecture of sorts, the scholarly voice perhaps surprisingly belonging to a tiny bluish feline creature with almost ethereal blue wings and an impressive set of blue tails. The tiny sphinx is comfortably curled up on the shoulder of a young dark-haired woman in a white dress with golden accessories that steps into the The Golden Ankh, stopping briefly to take in the view of the tavern as well as it's sounds and it's scents. The young dark-haired woman carries a leather shoulder bag and has a simple curved blade tucked under her belt, carrying herself with a calm confidence as she surveys the scene. "Men and their insecurities." She says with a soft laugh, accepting a golden drink from the bar as her dark brown eyes scan the crowd for what she seeks. "What are the chances we would find the group we're looking for and we don't have to endure the company of any insecure men do you think dear Thoth?" She asks with a grin the tiny sphinx on her shoulder who only responds by rolling his eyes.
The man smiles at Zahara as she glides across the room, holding her golden eyes with his own amber. He seems entirely at ease, as if one who is accustomed to his wishes being obeyed, or else who is comfortable with rejection. Whether fascinated, relieved, or otherwise, his smile only widens as the tiefling takes a seat. He reaches up, drawing back his hood. He might be middle-aged, but his sun-kissed, bronze skin is smooth and ageless. He has a well-groomed beard, oiled and gleaming in the soft light. It accentuates his high cheekbones. His hair, jet-black, is shoulder-length and tied back with a golden serpent clasp. His frankincense perfume wafts across the table, not so much presenting itself as commanding attention.
Zahara, all others Perception DC 15:
“I have a good eye for investments,” he replies cheerily, with a wink. “Especially those of a, ah, speculative nature. Your friends are the discerning sort, and it seems they have not appraised me highly. But, I must appear a speculative investment myself! Of time, of attention. But I am hopeful. Tell me, what drew you to my table ahead of the others? I notice you eye my ring. Do you have a fondness for the gold, or for the serpent?”
His eyes suddenly dart to the tavern's entrance. He gasps involuntarily. "What a marvelous sphinx!"