Zahara watches as Menkaure departs, his silhouette swallowed by the restless currents of the gathering. Her gaze lingers for a moment longer on the silent figure that shadows him, noting the keen eyes that sweep over their group like a blade measuring its mark. A warrior’s presence, one accustomed to the weight of steel and silence. Then, with a whisper of fabric and a breath of wind, they are gone.
A pact sealed in word and offering.
Her gaze lingers on the golden serpent ring now in her possession. Warm, as if still carrying the heat of its former master. A relic of power. The weight of its history does not go unnoticed, nor the implications of how it was procured. But she does not question it. Not here. Not yet.
At the arrival of Nephthys and her mentor, Zahara’s attention shifts, her expression quiet, observant. A tiny, winged sphinx imparting both wisdom and dry wit, while his student engages with an ease she cannot yet decide is genuine or merely practiced. She offers a small nod in return, acknowledging their introductions without embellishment.
"Zahara," she says simply.
Ophelia’s whisper of poetry drifts through the air, ephemeral as a dying ember. The cadence of it brushes against something familiar in Zahara’s mind—the weight of time, of ruin, of inevitability. She does not speak in response, but a flicker of understanding passes through her golden-hued eyes.
Satina and Nephthys move toward the bar, the invitation extended without pressure. Zahara hesitates only a breath before rising to follow. She has little interest in drowning the night in spirits, but there is something grounding in the company of others—companions now, bound by purpose, if not yet trust.
Her gaze then drifts to the winged sphinx, its scholarly voice filling the space with history and intrigue. She listens with a measured patience, absorbing the details of Akhentepi’s life and the weight of the city’s past. But when Thoth’s keen eyes shift toward the ring still in her palm. She pauses at the request from the Sphinx--not from reluctance, but from habit. She is not accustomed to parting with things once they are in her possession. But she studies the sphinx’s intent, it's gaze, weighing the request, and after a brief pause, she nods.
Carefully, she places it on the table before Thoth, the metal catching the dim light as it settles against the worn wood. “Examine it as you wish,” she allows, her voice even, though a glimmer of curiosity lingers beneath her words. "I’d be interested to hear what you make of it."
At Zephirah’s jest, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of Zahara’s lips. "A thorough study, is it?" she murmurs, allowing the humor to settle around her like a cloak against the weight of their task ahead. She does not confirm nor deny her participation, only inclines her head slightly before extending a hand.
A whisper of nature stirs in the air as she calls upon her magic once more, a final acknowledgment of the night’s exchange. An outline manifests in her palm, shaping a delicate desert bloom—a flower that should not thrive in this place, yet does for this brief moment. With a gentle motion, she releases it, letting the petals drift toward Zephirah.
The curious yellow eyes of the tiny blue winged feline follows the ancient ring as it is placed on the table, merely nodding it's gratitude before delving into the mysteries of the item before it, slowly circling it on the table, it's small blue paws carefully moving it around slightly, reminiscent of a predator playing with it's prey, only with the scholarly approach of an old professor.
The tiny blue sphinx mutters something to itself as it studies the ancient serpent ring, but after some time it stops and sits back on it's haunches and addresses the owner of the ring with a somewhat grave tone.
For those still at the table who has the patience for another tediously told but possibly quite relevant lecture.
Akhentepi was known to be a man of honor, a devoted husband, and a loving father. Yet, his fate was sealed not by sword or spear, but by the mysteries of the desert. The ring had not always been his. It had been forged in the shadowed halls of a temple of the goddess Lamasthu. It came into Akhentepi’s possession during a campaign against gnoll raiders from the Brazen Frontier, a fierce people who worshipped Lamashtu and Urgathoa (goddess of disease and undeath). According to legend, in a final battle, Akhentepi struck down their warlord. As the enemy leader gasped his last breath, he clutched Akhentepi’s arm and rasped, “The serpent sees you now.” Then he placed the golden ring into the general’s hand before he died. The ring was exquisitely crafted, its body a coiling serpent. Despite its ominous origins, Akhentepi kept the ring.
Upon his return home, Akhentepi’s victories were celebrated. Years passed, and Akhentepi’s name remained a beacon of strength. His last action was to perform a routine inspection of the city’s defenses. He rode into the desert alone. By dawn, only his horse returned, riderless and covered in dust. His body was found days later, untouched by scavengers, resting against an ancient ruin with no sign of wounds or struggle. There has been hypothesized about the ring that it watches over its bearer or bides its time, as the serpent always does.
Zephirah accepts the drifting petals from Zahara with a coy smile, letting the faint notes of her lyre settle to a lower, more ominous pitch. With a subtle intonation of an ancient word, she summons a delicate gust—her eyes gleaming as the petals stir and swirl in an elegant ballet above the table (Thaumaturgy). In that quiet moment, she appears half enthralled by the interplay of color and motion, half assessing its effect on those around her, a tiny show of what her magic—and her charm—can do.
As Thoth’s lecture unfolds and the atmosphere darkens with every thread of history, Zephirah tilts her head to listen, fingers trailing idly over the lyre’s strings in a minor key. The tale of Akhentepi and the ring’s cursed origins draws out a pensive hum from her lips. “Your stories must be quite sought-after by every campfire in Osirion, Thoth,” she muses, her tone hushed but laced with a mischievous undercurrent. “I can’t help but think you enjoy stirring hearts with dread and possibility.” Her silver gaze flicks briefly to the ring, then back to the tiny sphinx, a half-smile lingering. “Though I suppose the serpent always hides a sting in its tail, doesn’t it?”
"You would think so but apparently I am not good at making history interesting."The tiny blue sphinx says with a hint of bitterness in it's scholarly tone, throwing a quick glare at his frivolous student at the bar, oblivious to any sarcasm from the tiefling. "As for stirring hearts I can assure you I only deal in facts, leaving the burden of emotions and the irrational to others." He adds with a small scoff. "I do would take into consideration that the ring might well be cursed in a sense though."He continues, looking back at the owner of the ring. "You should consider the possibility that our client had always planned to give us the ring for some nefarious purpose. You would all do well to neither trust him nor that ring."
Zephirah’s silver eyes flick to Thoth, a knowing smile curving her lips. “I beg to differ, dear Thoth,” she murmurs, plucking a gentle note on her lyre. “Even the plain recitation of facts can be most gripping in the right moment—like the hush of an audience before tragedy strikes.” She allows that thought to settle, then arches a brow playfully. “Some ...", she lingers a moment in thought, "... beings simply have a gift for timing and tone.”
"And some have not."The tiny blue sphinx adds with a wry smile. "I have no desire to grip my audience though, just to impart the gathered knowledge of ages upon those willing to listen and learn from their elders." Thoth states calmly. There is however a hint of the blue winged feline being pleased with the percieved attempt to flatter it, and it moves closer to the horned lyrist to allow her the privilege of petting it.
"So what qualifications do you all have for undertaking a mission like this?" Thoth asks after a while, looking around at those present at the table.
Zephirah’s grin spreads as she sets her lyre aside and gives the sphinx a gentle scratch between the ears, her tone light yet shrewd. “Oh, come now, Professor,” she purrs, drawing out the title with sweet, teasing affection. “Isn’t there a secret thrill in that hush, just before your words spark an inquisitive mind? Surely, to one so steeped in knowledge, this must have happened already. Perhaps the slightest whiff of drama in your recitals had fired ideas in both students and equals alike.” Her silver gaze narrows playfully. “After all, what scholar truly spurns the lure of newfound insight, and more so the insight that can be rightfully said to be a reflection of their own genius?”
Still having not made it to the bar, Satina hears Ophelia as she introduces herself. Meeting her violet eyes, she is not quite sure who the woman was actually addressing. Perhaps everyone. But she chooses to respond. "We are glad to have you with us Ophelia. Will you join us for a drink?" The question was more out of habit. Even as she said it she wasn't sure what drink might do with this strange-speaking woman. "Or at least come and sit with us." She offers her a smile, hoping to convince her.
Whatever her response, she continues towards the bar, finally asking for some of that golden drink. The mention of getting something edible makes her stomach rumble once again. "Oh yes, and do you have a bit to eat?"
Waiting next to Nephthys by the bar for food and drink, she replies to her question. "I guess I've seen a lot of fighting. I served as a soldier for several years. Back in Taldor." Her eyes follow her hand as it briefly touches the metal. "This armor is new. Really, I have Zephirah to thank for it. We pooled our resources to be able to afford it. I'm really in her debt."
At that point she looks out for where Zephirah is at, her eyes scanning the room. Ah, still trying to convince Zahara to "study" the drinks with her. Satina find a seat to sit down. She sits and watches as Zephirah plays her lyre. That seems to be the focus of her attention as she slowly finishes off her drink. Perhaps she catches some of Thoth's lectures, but maybe not. From time to time she steals a glance towards Ophelia, making sure she's fine.
Zahara listens in silence as Thoth recounts the history of the ring, her gaze steady upon the serpent’s coiled form. Her mind weaving the details together—the fallen warlord’s dying words, Akhentepi’s disappearance, and the ominous notion that the ring watches… or waits.
She exhales softly, a measured breath, before responding. “A serpent bides its time,” she muses, echoing Thoth’s warning. “And so does a man who gifts such an artifact without hesitation.”Her thoughts drift momentarily to Menkaure, the smooth confidence in his words, the ease with which he had parted with this piece of history. “Your caution is noted, Thoth. And shared.”
Her eyes flick to Zephirah, who, ever at ease with a gathered audience, orchestrates a dance of petals through the air, her lyre weaving delicate tension beneath Thoth’s words. Zahara allows a small, private smile—Zephirah never misses an opportunity to command a room, whether through word, melody, or well-timed spectacle.
Zahara lets the debate unfold between them, Thoth’s studious retorts meeting Zephirah’s playful provocations. As the sphinx allows itself to be drawn into the tiefling’s orbit, she observes with quiet amusement.
It is Satina’s presence that finally draws her attention away. She watches as the woman finds a seat, her gaze flickering between Zephirah’s performance and Ophelia’s quiet form. There is something in the way she keeps glancing toward the strange, erratic woman that speaks of a quiet concern—one Zahara understands all too well.
Zahara shifts slightly toward Satina, her voice measured but carrying an undertone of shared understanding. “You’re watching her,” she notes, not unkindly. Her gaze follows Satina’s to Ophelia before returning. “She is… difficult to place, isn’t she?” Zahara pauses before continuing. “She reminds me of something just out of reach, like a half-remembered dream.”
Zahara’s gaze lingers on Satina, her voice calm but perceptive. “You’ve been watching her,” she notes, the faintest hint of curiosity threading her tone. “What about Ophelia troubles you?”
The yellow eyes of the tiny bluish winged feline closes and it purrs as the tiefling gently pets it. "Dear lady, while I consider myself a keeper of knowledge I am admittedly not at all a poetic wordsmith such as yourself, in fact I am not even sure what you are asking me?"Thoth says in an apologetic but friendly tone, looking up at the silvery-eyed tiefling, not sure what else to say but at the same time seeming quite content with the attention he has had.
"Taldor, I should have guessed. I should welcome you to Osirion then." The dark-haired woman says with a friendly smile, assisting Satina in bringing food and golden drink to the table where she finds a seat and enjoys what they brought to the bar while trying to catch up with the conversation there. "So, what brought you all here then?" She asks as there is a moment of silence, looking around at her new companions, hoping to know a little bit more about the people she will soon face mortal peril together with.
A server approaches Satina, balancing a wide ceramic plate. She sets it down before her with a slight bow of her head. The plate contains a neat row of grape leaves stuffed with fragrant rice, caramelized onions, and spices under a drizzle of oil. Beside them is a small clay dish of pickled vegetables. A round of fresh flatbread rests on the plate’s edge. More plates appear at the table where Thoth has been lecturing. They are filled with cheese, dates, nuts, and honey. A plate of small cakes soaked in honey and sprinkled with chopped dates rounds out the meal. At any offer to pay, the server waves her hand. “Use your coin only to tip. Your account is paid.”
Zahara lifts a glass, watching as the golden liquid catches the dim light, its surface as shifting and unfathomable as the dunes she once called home. At Nephthys’ question, she considers her words carefully before speaking, her voice calm but certain.
“The desert called me here,” she says, tracing the rim of her glass with a single finger. “Its sands have long whispered of the Pharaoh of Sphinxes, an ancient ruler lost to time—until now. When word of the discovery reached me, I knew it was no coincidence.”
Her gaze shifts briefly to Nephthys, then to the others. “For years, I walked alone beneath the sun and stars, listening to the voices buried beneath the dunes. Spirits older than any kingdom linger in Osirion, watching, waiting. Some long to be remembered—others, to be left undisturbed.” She exhales softly, as if hearing echoes of something only she can perceive.
“And so, I left my solitude behind. The sands guided my steps here. To uncover what has been lost… and to ensure what should remain buried stays that way.”
Zephirah offers the little sphinx a teasing smile, fingers still gently scratching behind his ears. “I’m only jesting, Professor,” she purrs, drawing out the title with mock solemnity. “If you ask me, your anecdotes are half the reason I’m so enthralled. You weave those ‘mere facts’ into quite the performance, whether you realize it or not.”
She turns next to Satina, flicking a dismissive hand. “Truly, my dear, you owe me nothing. That ‘abomination of steel’ you’re wearing was as much a benefit to me as it is to you—I prefer my associates well-guarded.” Her grin quirks to one side. “Besides, you’re the one hefting all that metal about, not I.”
When platters laden with honeyed cakes, stuffed grape leaves, and sweetened dates arrive, Zephirah’s silver eyes glitter with amusement. “Ah, Menkaure’s revenge, no doubt,” she murmurs dryly. “Such decadent feasts are bound to haunt our taste buds once we’re scouring the dunes for water and shade.”
She samples the food until Zahara finishes speaking, then, quite suddenly, falls into a soft hum—her lyre’s strings echoing the subdued notes. The tavern’s warmth seems to waver under the first lines of her song, a solemn air revealing threads of her past no one has glimpsed before:
"In desert sands beneath darkened skies, A child born where shadow lies. Bound by chains no eyes could see, Dancing slave to Hekate."
...
"Then came heroes, blades of light, Hekate slain beneath the night. Yet frozen, silent, she could not fight, Afraid to rise, afraid to strike."
...
"Now a bard, she walks anew, In golden sands, her truth pursue."
Her voice lingers in the final note, the melody fading as she lowers her gaze. Only then does she lift her eyes again, a faint smirk twitching at her lips, as if reminding the room that even a solemn song can be a shield.
Satina is glad when the food arrives, quickly grabbing one of the stuffed grape leaves and tasting it. Soon she finishes the rest of it, trying to not look like a pig doing it. "This is unusual, but quite good."
When Zahara speaks up about her watching Ophelia, she quickly turns her attention away, as though caught doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing. It takes a moment for her to collect herself before speaking. "Oh, I was just... I'm not really troubled by her. It's just..."
Clearly she at a loss for words until she takes a deep breath and seems to focus. "I can't say I follow what she's saying most the time. I just wonder if she's fully aware of where she is. And does she know what she's getting into with this expedition." She glances about the room. "Not to mention just taking care of herself here."
Satina feels bad talking about the woman who is right here with them. Her eyes are drawn back to Ophelia and there's a skit smile on her face as she sees her. "I mean no offense to you. Maybe I just need to get to know you better."
Seeming uncomfortable with the conversation, she grows quieter. Her attention turns to the plates of dates and nuts, grabbing a couple to snack on. She refills her glass with more of the golden drink. Ans as before her gaze eventually returns to watch Zephirah as she sings.
Zahara listens, her expression calm, as Satina struggles to find the words to voice her concerns. She does not interrupt, allowing the silence to settle before she speaks, her tone measured but gentle.
“Ophelia walks the world differently than we do,” Zahara says, glancing toward the elf with the same quiet intensity she had before. “She seems to listen to something most of us cannot hear. Sees things through a lens not bound by the same rules we follow.”
She leans back slightly, swirling the golden drink in her glass. “I understand your concern. The desert is not kind to those unprepared for its trials.” There is a weight to her words, an unspoken understanding of what the sands can take from those who do not respect them. But then, her gaze softens just a fraction. “But there is may be insight in her drifting thoughts, even if we do not always grasp it. The desert has space for those who do not walk in straight lines.”
Zahara lets the words settle before adding, “She may not follow our steps exactly, but I do not think she is lost.” Her eyes meet Satina’s.
Zahara lets the silence linger for a moment before turning to Ophelia, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “Ophelia,” she says, “You speak in verses—threads of something greater. Do you see something in this path we walk?”
There is no skepticism in her tone, only curiosity, an invitation rather than a challenge. She tilts her head slightly, studying the elf with quiet interest. “What do the winds whisper to you?”
It is not just a question—it is an offering of space within the group, a place for Ophelia’s voice to be heard.
"I am no professor, that would be a title some mortals at places of higher learning would give themselves to make themselves sound more important." The tiny blue sphinx points out, but the flattery about his anecdotes seem to stick. "You would certainly be a more appreciating student than my current one."He adds with a scoff, glancing over at Nephthys. "I have an abundance of old anecdotes though." He adds with a pleased purr. "I can testify to that." The young dark-haired woman says with a small smile.
Finding the served food on the many plates quite delicious, Nephthys would tell the others about her favourites, urging them, particularly those who are not locals, to try everything, seeming quite proud of the Osirian kitchen. She otherwise listens attentively as the other speaks. She doesn't quite understand what the ringbearer means but it was clear she was no mere adventurer here to make profit. The somber song of the other tiefling suggests she too is from the parched dunes and had probably made friends with the taldoran locally then.
"As for myself, thanks for asking, it was suggested to me by my mentor that I should set out to find this long lost pyramid. I admit I didn't expect to be provided with the means to find it without even looking. While I don't trust this slithering lord farther than Thoth can throw him I do think he is truthful about having found it's location. I hope we can agree on finding out more about the skull he desires before simply turning it over to him. He will come after us of course if we don't deliver, and the ring might unfortunately assist him with that, but first thing first, finding, entering and surviving that tomb will need our full focus before we make any decisions on how to deal with that man." The young dark-haired woman says, and for once Thoth seems to be in agreement with her.
The tiny blue sphinx mutters something to itself as it studies the ancient serpent ring, but after some time it stops and sits back on it's haunches and addresses the owner of the ring with a somewhat grave tone.
For those still at the table who has the patience for another tediously told but possibly quite relevant lecture.
Akhentepi was known to be a man of honor, a devoted husband, and a loving father. Yet, his fate was sealed not by sword or spear, but by the mysteries of the desert. The ring had not always been his. It had been forged in the shadowed halls of a temple of the goddess Lamasthu. It came into Akhentepi’s possession during a campaign against gnoll raiders from the Brazen Frontier, a fierce people who worshipped Lamashtu and Urgathoa (goddess of disease and undeath). According to legend, in a final battle, Akhentepi struck down their warlord. As the enemy leader gasped his last breath, he clutched Akhentepi’s arm and rasped, “The serpent sees you now.” Then he placed the golden ring into the general’s hand before he died. The ring was exquisitely crafted, its body a coiling serpent. Despite its ominous origins, Akhentepi kept the ring.
Upon his return home, Akhentepi’s victories were celebrated. Years passed, and Akhentepi’s name remained a beacon of strength. His last action was to perform a routine inspection of the city’s defenses. He rode into the desert alone. By dawn, only his horse returned, riderless and covered in dust. His body was found days later, untouched by scavengers, resting against an ancient ruin with no sign of wounds or struggle. There has been hypothesized about the ring that it watches over its bearer or bides its time, as the serpent always does.
Ophelia listens raptly to the teachings of the professor sphinx, though contrary to Thoth's stated purpose, her focus seems to be on the tone and feel more than the actual content of the creature's words, the elf's body swaying subconsciously as she takes in the power of the tale.
Still having not made it to the bar, Satina hears Ophelia as she introduces herself. Meeting her violet eyes, she is not quite sure who the woman was actually addressing. Perhaps everyone. But she chooses to respond. "We are glad to have you with us Ophelia. Will you join us for a drink?" The question was more out of habit. Even as she said it she wasn't sure what drink might do with this strange-speaking woman. "Or at least come and sit with us." She offers her a smile, hoping to convince her.
... From time to time she steals a glance towards Ophelia, making sure she's fine.
Ophelia sits unobtrusively as suggested, though she makes no move to eat or drink. The forced smile remains frozen on her face as she speaks.
"There is rosemary, that is for remembrance. Pray you, remember. And there is pansies, that is for thoughts. And Thoth."
Zahara lifts a glass, watching as the golden liquid catches the dim light, its surface as shifting and unfathomable as the dunes she once called home. At Nephthys’ question, she considers her words carefully before speaking, her voice calm but certain.
“The desert called me here,” she says, tracing the rim of her glass with a single finger. “Its sands have long whispered of the Pharaoh of Sphinxes, an ancient ruler lost to time—until now. When word of the discovery reached me, I knew it was no coincidence.”
Her gaze shifts briefly to Nephthys, then to the others. “For years, I walked alone beneath the sun and stars, listening to the voices buried beneath the dunes. Spirits older than any kingdom linger in Osirion, watching, waiting. Some long to be remembered—others, to be left undisturbed.” She exhales softly, as if hearing echoes of something only she can perceive.
“And so, I left my solitude behind. The sands guided my steps here. To uncover what has been lost… and to ensure what should remain buried stays that way.”
Transfixed much as she had been by Thoth's tale, Ophelia's gaze snaps to Zahara.as she listens. "Yes, yes! Abiding, abiding" the elven woman breathes, bowing her head solemnly. "The voices lie in the deeps. Waiting in the sands, patiently, patiently. For us. To reveal the fatal softness of he Earth."
..."Oh, I was just... I'm not really troubled by her. It's just..."
Clearly she at a loss for words until she takes a deep breath and seems to focus. "I can't say I follow what she's saying most the time. I just wonder if she's fully aware of where she is. And does she know what she's getting into with this expedition." She glances about the room. "Not to mention just taking care of herself here."
Satina feels bad talking about the woman who is right here with them. Her eyes are drawn back to Ophelia and there's a skit smile on her face as she sees her. "I mean no offense to you. Maybe I just need to get to know you better."
If Ophelia takes any offense, she does not show it, nodding at Satina as if agreeing. "We are all but travelers in an antique land. We shall all take care."
Zahara listens, her expression calm, as Satina struggles to find the words to voice her concerns. She does not interrupt, allowing the silence to settle before she speaks, her tone measured but gentle.
“Ophelia walks the world differently than we do,” Zahara says, glancing toward the elf with the same quiet intensity she had before. “She seems to listen to something most of us cannot hear. Sees things through a lens not bound by the same rules we follow.”
She leans back slightly, swirling the golden drink in her glass. “I understand your concern. The desert is not kind to those unprepared for its trials.” There is a weight to her words, an unspoken understanding of what the sands can take from those who do not respect them. But then, her gaze softens just a fraction. “But there is may be insight in her drifting thoughts, even if we do not always grasp it. The desert has space for those who do not walk in straight lines.”
Zahara lets the words settle before adding, “She may not follow our steps exactly, but I do not think she is lost.” Her eyes meet Satina’s.
Zahara lets the silence linger for a moment before turning to Ophelia, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “Ophelia,” she says, “You speak in verses—threads of something greater. Do you see something in this path we walk?”
There is no skepticism in her tone, only curiosity, an invitation rather than a challenge. She tilts her head slightly, studying the elf with quiet interest. “What do the winds whisper to you?”
It is not just a question—it is an offering of space within the group, a place for Ophelia’s voice to be heard.
Ophelia's smile reveals genuine warmth towards Zahara, and a grim determination, yet also a hint of resignation. Her voice becomes sing-song once more.
"Soon comes the time all shall be free, Even they, and even we. Soon comes the time when all may die, Never they, yet surely I."
Zahara holds Ophelia’s gaze, there is warmth in her smile, but beneath it, something else—a quiet resolve, a surrender to fate that Zahara recognizes all too well.
She inclines her head slightly, acknowledging what lies unspoken between the lines. "The desert does not ask why the wind sings—it simply listens."There is a quiet steadiness in her voice, a reassurance without denial. "If the time you speak of comes, we will meet it together."
Zahara’s gaze lingers on Ophelia for a moment longer, absorbing the quiet resignation beneath her words. She has known that feeling—the certainty of an ending long before it arrives. But the desert does not stop for what is inevitable; it simply endures.
She inclines her head, her voice calm, steady. “The desert does not ask why the wind sings—it simply listens.”A reassurance, not a refusal. “If the time you speak of comes, we will meet it together.”
Reaching for a date from the shared plate, her movements unhurried, she allows a small flicker of dry amusement to touch her lips. “But not tonight.”
Then, her attention shifts, drawn once more to the melody threading through the air. Zephirah’s song has not faltered, yet Zahara knows the need behind it—the way she carries music like a banner, demanding to be seen, to be felt. She will not let her voice fade into the background.
With the same measured grace, she gestures toward her. “And what of the one who weaves light into song?”Her tone holds the same quiet respect as before, when she had first spoken of Zephirah’s voice reaching where words could not. “Surely, you have a verse for such a night—one that speaks not of endings, but of what lies ahead.”
It is both invitation and acknowledgment. Even in the vast silence of the desert, the wind does not sing for itself. It sings so none may forget it is there.
When Ophelia seems to nod to her in response to her comments, Satina smiles at her. "We shall all take care," she replies softly. "That's good Ophelia." She seems relieved a bit. Or perhaps it's an effect of the drinks she's had. After filling her glass again, she comes back and sits down again, listening to Zephirah's song telling of the past. As the song seems to wind to an end she takes a small piece of the honey-soaked cake and tastes it. "This is amazing!"
Listening to Zahara ask for another verse, she calls out as well. "Zephirah, you should take a break. Enjoy some of this food. This cake with honey is amazing. You should have some fun before we have to head out into the desert."
Zahara watches as Menkaure departs, his silhouette swallowed by the restless currents of the gathering. Her gaze lingers for a moment longer on the silent figure that shadows him, noting the keen eyes that sweep over their group like a blade measuring its mark. A warrior’s presence, one accustomed to the weight of steel and silence. Then, with a whisper of fabric and a breath of wind, they are gone.
A pact sealed in word and offering.
Her gaze lingers on the golden serpent ring now in her possession. Warm, as if still carrying the heat of its former master. A relic of power. The weight of its history does not go unnoticed, nor the implications of how it was procured. But she does not question it. Not here. Not yet.
At the arrival of Nephthys and her mentor, Zahara’s attention shifts, her expression quiet, observant. A tiny, winged sphinx imparting both wisdom and dry wit, while his student engages with an ease she cannot yet decide is genuine or merely practiced. She offers a small nod in return, acknowledging their introductions without embellishment.
"Zahara," she says simply.
Ophelia’s whisper of poetry drifts through the air, ephemeral as a dying ember. The cadence of it brushes against something familiar in Zahara’s mind—the weight of time, of ruin, of inevitability. She does not speak in response, but a flicker of understanding passes through her golden-hued eyes.
Satina and Nephthys move toward the bar, the invitation extended without pressure. Zahara hesitates only a breath before rising to follow. She has little interest in drowning the night in spirits, but there is something grounding in the company of others—companions now, bound by purpose, if not yet trust.
Her gaze then drifts to the winged sphinx, its scholarly voice filling the space with history and intrigue. She listens with a measured patience, absorbing the details of Akhentepi’s life and the weight of the city’s past. But when Thoth’s keen eyes shift toward the ring still in her palm. She pauses at the request from the Sphinx--not from reluctance, but from habit. She is not accustomed to parting with things once they are in her possession. But she studies the sphinx’s intent, it's gaze, weighing the request, and after a brief pause, she nods.
Carefully, she places it on the table before Thoth, the metal catching the dim light as it settles against the worn wood. “Examine it as you wish,” she allows, her voice even, though a glimmer of curiosity lingers beneath her words. "I’d be interested to hear what you make of it."
At Zephirah’s jest, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of Zahara’s lips. "A thorough study, is it?" she murmurs, allowing the humor to settle around her like a cloak against the weight of their task ahead. She does not confirm nor deny her participation, only inclines her head slightly before extending a hand.
A whisper of nature stirs in the air as she calls upon her magic once more, a final acknowledgment of the night’s exchange. An outline manifests in her palm, shaping a delicate desert bloom—a flower that should not thrive in this place, yet does for this brief moment. With a gentle motion, she releases it, letting the petals drift toward Zephirah.
A token for a token.
The curious yellow eyes of the tiny blue winged feline follows the ancient ring as it is placed on the table, merely nodding it's gratitude before delving into the mysteries of the item before it, slowly circling it on the table, it's small blue paws carefully moving it around slightly, reminiscent of a predator playing with it's prey, only with the scholarly approach of an old professor.
The tiny blue sphinx mutters something to itself as it studies the ancient serpent ring, but after some time it stops and sits back on it's haunches and addresses the owner of the ring with a somewhat grave tone.
For those still at the table who has the patience for another tediously told but possibly quite relevant lecture.
Akhentepi was known to be a man of honor, a devoted husband, and a loving father. Yet, his fate was sealed not by sword or spear, but by the mysteries of the desert. The ring had not always been his. It had been forged in the shadowed halls of a temple of the goddess Lamasthu. It came into Akhentepi’s possession during a campaign against gnoll raiders from the Brazen Frontier, a fierce people who worshipped Lamashtu and Urgathoa (goddess of disease and undeath). According to legend, in a final battle, Akhentepi struck down their warlord. As the enemy leader gasped his last breath, he clutched Akhentepi’s arm and rasped, “The serpent sees you now.” Then he placed the golden ring into the general’s hand before he died. The ring was exquisitely crafted, its body a coiling serpent. Despite its ominous origins, Akhentepi kept the ring.
Upon his return home, Akhentepi’s victories were celebrated. Years passed, and Akhentepi’s name remained a beacon of strength. His last action was to perform a routine inspection of the city’s defenses. He rode into the desert alone. By dawn, only his horse returned, riderless and covered in dust. His body was found days later, untouched by scavengers, resting against an ancient ruin with no sign of wounds or struggle. There has been hypothesized about the ring that it watches over its bearer or bides its time, as the serpent always does.
Zephirah accepts the drifting petals from Zahara with a coy smile, letting the faint notes of her lyre settle to a lower, more ominous pitch. With a subtle intonation of an ancient word, she summons a delicate gust—her eyes gleaming as the petals stir and swirl in an elegant ballet above the table (Thaumaturgy). In that quiet moment, she appears half enthralled by the interplay of color and motion, half assessing its effect on those around her, a tiny show of what her magic—and her charm—can do.
As Thoth’s lecture unfolds and the atmosphere darkens with every thread of history, Zephirah tilts her head to listen, fingers trailing idly over the lyre’s strings in a minor key. The tale of Akhentepi and the ring’s cursed origins draws out a pensive hum from her lips. “Your stories must be quite sought-after by every campfire in Osirion, Thoth,” she muses, her tone hushed but laced with a mischievous undercurrent. “I can’t help but think you enjoy stirring hearts with dread and possibility.” Her silver gaze flicks briefly to the ring, then back to the tiny sphinx, a half-smile lingering. “Though I suppose the serpent always hides a sting in its tail, doesn’t it?”
|| 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 ||
"You would think so but apparently I am not good at making history interesting." The tiny blue sphinx says with a hint of bitterness in it's scholarly tone, throwing a quick glare at his frivolous student at the bar, oblivious to any sarcasm from the tiefling. "As for stirring hearts I can assure you I only deal in facts, leaving the burden of emotions and the irrational to others." He adds with a small scoff. "I do would take into consideration that the ring might well be cursed in a sense though." He continues, looking back at the owner of the ring. "You should consider the possibility that our client had always planned to give us the ring for some nefarious purpose. You would all do well to neither trust him nor that ring."
Zephirah’s silver eyes flick to Thoth, a knowing smile curving her lips. “I beg to differ, dear Thoth,” she murmurs, plucking a gentle note on her lyre. “Even the plain recitation of facts can be most gripping in the right moment—like the hush of an audience before tragedy strikes.” She allows that thought to settle, then arches a brow playfully. “Some ...", she lingers a moment in thought, "... beings simply have a gift for timing and tone.”
|| 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 ||
"And some have not." The tiny blue sphinx adds with a wry smile. "I have no desire to grip my audience though, just to impart the gathered knowledge of ages upon those willing to listen and learn from their elders." Thoth states calmly. There is however a hint of the blue winged feline being pleased with the percieved attempt to flatter it, and it moves closer to the horned lyrist to allow her the privilege of petting it.
"So what qualifications do you all have for undertaking a mission like this?" Thoth asks after a while, looking around at those present at the table.
Zephirah’s grin spreads as she sets her lyre aside and gives the sphinx a gentle scratch between the ears, her tone light yet shrewd. “Oh, come now, Professor,” she purrs, drawing out the title with sweet, teasing affection. “Isn’t there a secret thrill in that hush, just before your words spark an inquisitive mind? Surely, to one so steeped in knowledge, this must have happened already. Perhaps the slightest whiff of drama in your recitals had fired ideas in both students and equals alike.” Her silver gaze narrows playfully. “After all, what scholar truly spurns the lure of newfound insight, and more so the insight that can be rightfully said to be a reflection of their own genius?”
|| 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 ||
Still having not made it to the bar, Satina hears Ophelia as she introduces herself. Meeting her violet eyes, she is not quite sure who the woman was actually addressing. Perhaps everyone. But she chooses to respond. "We are glad to have you with us Ophelia. Will you join us for a drink?" The question was more out of habit. Even as she said it she wasn't sure what drink might do with this strange-speaking woman. "Or at least come and sit with us." She offers her a smile, hoping to convince her.
Whatever her response, she continues towards the bar, finally asking for some of that golden drink. The mention of getting something edible makes her stomach rumble once again. "Oh yes, and do you have a bit to eat?"
Waiting next to Nephthys by the bar for food and drink, she replies to her question. "I guess I've seen a lot of fighting. I served as a soldier for several years. Back in Taldor." Her eyes follow her hand as it briefly touches the metal. "This armor is new. Really, I have Zephirah to thank for it. We pooled our resources to be able to afford it. I'm really in her debt."
At that point she looks out for where Zephirah is at, her eyes scanning the room. Ah, still trying to convince Zahara to "study" the drinks with her. Satina find a seat to sit down. She sits and watches as Zephirah plays her lyre. That seems to be the focus of her attention as she slowly finishes off her drink. Perhaps she catches some of Thoth's lectures, but maybe not. From time to time she steals a glance towards Ophelia, making sure she's fine.
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 listens in silence as Thoth recounts the history of the ring, her gaze steady upon the serpent’s coiled form. Her mind weaving the details together—the fallen warlord’s dying words, Akhentepi’s disappearance, and the ominous notion that the ring watches… or waits.
She exhales softly, a measured breath, before responding. “A serpent bides its time,” she muses, echoing Thoth’s warning. “And so does a man who gifts such an artifact without hesitation.” Her thoughts drift momentarily to Menkaure, the smooth confidence in his words, the ease with which he had parted with this piece of history. “Your caution is noted, Thoth. And shared.”
Her eyes flick to Zephirah, who, ever at ease with a gathered audience, orchestrates a dance of petals through the air, her lyre weaving delicate tension beneath Thoth’s words. Zahara allows a small, private smile—Zephirah never misses an opportunity to command a room, whether through word, melody, or well-timed spectacle.
Zahara lets the debate unfold between them, Thoth’s studious retorts meeting Zephirah’s playful provocations. As the sphinx allows itself to be drawn into the tiefling’s orbit, she observes with quiet amusement.
It is Satina’s presence that finally draws her attention away. She watches as the woman finds a seat, her gaze flickering between Zephirah’s performance and Ophelia’s quiet form. There is something in the way she keeps glancing toward the strange, erratic woman that speaks of a quiet concern—one Zahara understands all too well.
Zahara shifts slightly toward Satina, her voice measured but carrying an undertone of shared understanding. “You’re watching her,” she notes, not unkindly. Her gaze follows Satina’s to Ophelia before returning. “She is… difficult to place, isn’t she?” Zahara pauses before continuing. “She reminds me of something just out of reach, like a half-remembered dream.”
Zahara’s gaze lingers on Satina, her voice calm but perceptive. “You’ve been watching her,” she notes, the faintest hint of curiosity threading her tone. “What about Ophelia troubles you?”
The yellow eyes of the tiny bluish winged feline closes and it purrs as the tiefling gently pets it. "Dear lady, while I consider myself a keeper of knowledge I am admittedly not at all a poetic wordsmith such as yourself, in fact I am not even sure what you are asking me?" Thoth says in an apologetic but friendly tone, looking up at the silvery-eyed tiefling, not sure what else to say but at the same time seeming quite content with the attention he has had.
"Taldor, I should have guessed. I should welcome you to Osirion then." The dark-haired woman says with a friendly smile, assisting Satina in bringing food and golden drink to the table where she finds a seat and enjoys what they brought to the bar while trying to catch up with the conversation there. "So, what brought you all here then?" She asks as there is a moment of silence, looking around at her new companions, hoping to know a little bit more about the people she will soon face mortal peril together with.
A server approaches Satina, balancing a wide ceramic plate. She sets it down before her with a slight bow of her head. The plate contains a neat row of grape leaves stuffed with fragrant rice, caramelized onions, and spices under a drizzle of oil. Beside them is a small clay dish of pickled vegetables. A round of fresh flatbread rests on the plate’s edge. More plates appear at the table where Thoth has been lecturing. They are filled with cheese, dates, nuts, and honey. A plate of small cakes soaked in honey and sprinkled with chopped dates rounds out the meal. At any offer to pay, the server waves her hand. “Use your coin only to tip. Your account is paid.”
Zahara lifts a glass, watching as the golden liquid catches the dim light, its surface as shifting and unfathomable as the dunes she once called home. At Nephthys’ question, she considers her words carefully before speaking, her voice calm but certain.
“The desert called me here,” she says, tracing the rim of her glass with a single finger. “Its sands have long whispered of the Pharaoh of Sphinxes, an ancient ruler lost to time—until now. When word of the discovery reached me, I knew it was no coincidence.”
Her gaze shifts briefly to Nephthys, then to the others. “For years, I walked alone beneath the sun and stars, listening to the voices buried beneath the dunes. Spirits older than any kingdom linger in Osirion, watching, waiting. Some long to be remembered—others, to be left undisturbed.” She exhales softly, as if hearing echoes of something only she can perceive.
“And so, I left my solitude behind. The sands guided my steps here. To uncover what has been lost… and to ensure what should remain buried stays that way.”
Zephirah offers the little sphinx a teasing smile, fingers still gently scratching behind his ears. “I’m only jesting, Professor,” she purrs, drawing out the title with mock solemnity. “If you ask me, your anecdotes are half the reason I’m so enthralled. You weave those ‘mere facts’ into quite the performance, whether you realize it or not.”
She turns next to Satina, flicking a dismissive hand. “Truly, my dear, you owe me nothing. That ‘abomination of steel’ you’re wearing was as much a benefit to me as it is to you—I prefer my associates well-guarded.” Her grin quirks to one side. “Besides, you’re the one hefting all that metal about, not I.”
When platters laden with honeyed cakes, stuffed grape leaves, and sweetened dates arrive, Zephirah’s silver eyes glitter with amusement. “Ah, Menkaure’s revenge, no doubt,” she murmurs dryly. “Such decadent feasts are bound to haunt our taste buds once we’re scouring the dunes for water and shade.”
She samples the food until Zahara finishes speaking, then, quite suddenly, falls into a soft hum—her lyre’s strings echoing the subdued notes. The tavern’s warmth seems to waver under the first lines of her song, a solemn air revealing threads of her past no one has glimpsed before:
"In desert sands beneath darkened skies,
A child born where shadow lies.
Bound by chains no eyes could see,
Dancing slave to Hekate."
...
"Then came heroes, blades of light,
Hekate slain beneath the night.
Yet frozen, silent, she could not fight,
Afraid to rise, afraid to strike."
...
"Now a bard, she walks anew,
In golden sands, her truth pursue."
Her voice lingers in the final note, the melody fading as she lowers her gaze. Only then does she lift her eyes again, a faint smirk twitching at her lips, as if reminding the room that even a solemn song can be a shield.
|| 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 is glad when the food arrives, quickly grabbing one of the stuffed grape leaves and tasting it. Soon she finishes the rest of it, trying to not look like a pig doing it. "This is unusual, but quite good."
When Zahara speaks up about her watching Ophelia, she quickly turns her attention away, as though caught doing something she wasn't supposed to be doing. It takes a moment for her to collect herself before speaking. "Oh, I was just... I'm not really troubled by her. It's just..."
Clearly she at a loss for words until she takes a deep breath and seems to focus. "I can't say I follow what she's saying most the time. I just wonder if she's fully aware of where she is. And does she know what she's getting into with this expedition." She glances about the room. "Not to mention just taking care of herself here."
Satina feels bad talking about the woman who is right here with them. Her eyes are drawn back to Ophelia and there's a skit smile on her face as she sees her. "I mean no offense to you. Maybe I just need to get to know you better."
Seeming uncomfortable with the conversation, she grows quieter. Her attention turns to the plates of dates and nuts, grabbing a couple to snack on. She refills her glass with more of the golden drink. Ans as before her gaze eventually returns to watch Zephirah as she sings.
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 listens, her expression calm, as Satina struggles to find the words to voice her concerns. She does not interrupt, allowing the silence to settle before she speaks, her tone measured but gentle.
“Ophelia walks the world differently than we do,” Zahara says, glancing toward the elf with the same quiet intensity she had before. “She seems to listen to something most of us cannot hear. Sees things through a lens not bound by the same rules we follow.”
She leans back slightly, swirling the golden drink in her glass. “I understand your concern. The desert is not kind to those unprepared for its trials.” There is a weight to her words, an unspoken understanding of what the sands can take from those who do not respect them. But then, her gaze softens just a fraction. “But there is may be insight in her drifting thoughts, even if we do not always grasp it. The desert has space for those who do not walk in straight lines.”
Zahara lets the words settle before adding, “She may not follow our steps exactly, but I do not think she is lost.” Her eyes meet Satina’s.
Zahara lets the silence linger for a moment before turning to Ophelia, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “Ophelia,” she says, “You speak in verses—threads of something greater. Do you see something in this path we walk?”
There is no skepticism in her tone, only curiosity, an invitation rather than a challenge. She tilts her head slightly, studying the elf with quiet interest. “What do the winds whisper to you?”
It is not just a question—it is an offering of space within the group, a place for Ophelia’s voice to be heard.
"I am no professor, that would be a title some mortals at places of higher learning would give themselves to make themselves sound more important." The tiny blue sphinx points out, but the flattery about his anecdotes seem to stick. "You would certainly be a more appreciating student than my current one." He adds with a scoff, glancing over at Nephthys. "I have an abundance of old anecdotes though." He adds with a pleased purr. "I can testify to that." The young dark-haired woman says with a small smile.
Finding the served food on the many plates quite delicious, Nephthys would tell the others about her favourites, urging them, particularly those who are not locals, to try everything, seeming quite proud of the Osirian kitchen. She otherwise listens attentively as the other speaks. She doesn't quite understand what the ringbearer means but it was clear she was no mere adventurer here to make profit. The somber song of the other tiefling suggests she too is from the parched dunes and had probably made friends with the taldoran locally then.
"As for myself, thanks for asking, it was suggested to me by my mentor that I should set out to find this long lost pyramid. I admit I didn't expect to be provided with the means to find it without even looking. While I don't trust this slithering lord farther than Thoth can throw him I do think he is truthful about having found it's location. I hope we can agree on finding out more about the skull he desires before simply turning it over to him. He will come after us of course if we don't deliver, and the ring might unfortunately assist him with that, but first thing first, finding, entering and surviving that tomb will need our full focus before we make any decisions on how to deal with that man." The young dark-haired woman says, and for once Thoth seems to be in agreement with her.
Ophelia listens raptly to the teachings of the professor sphinx, though contrary to Thoth's stated purpose, her focus seems to be on the tone and feel more than the actual content of the creature's words, the elf's body swaying subconsciously as she takes in the power of the tale.
Ophelia sits unobtrusively as suggested, though she makes no move to eat or drink. The forced smile remains frozen on her face as she speaks.
"There is rosemary, that is for remembrance. Pray you, remember. And there is pansies, that is for thoughts. And Thoth."
Transfixed much as she had been by Thoth's tale, Ophelia's gaze snaps to Zahara.as she listens. "Yes, yes! Abiding, abiding" the elven woman breathes, bowing her head solemnly. "The voices lie in the deeps. Waiting in the sands, patiently, patiently. For us. To reveal the fatal softness of he Earth."
If Ophelia takes any offense, she does not show it, nodding at Satina as if agreeing. "We are all but travelers in an antique land. We shall all take care."
Ophelia's smile reveals genuine warmth towards Zahara, and a grim determination, yet also a hint of resignation. Her voice becomes sing-song once more.
"Soon comes the time all shall be free,
Even they, and even we.
Soon comes the time when all may die,
Never they, yet surely I."
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
Zahara holds Ophelia’s gaze, there is warmth in her smile, but beneath it, something else—a quiet resolve, a surrender to fate that Zahara recognizes all too well.
She inclines her head slightly, acknowledging what lies unspoken between the lines. "The desert does not ask why the wind sings—it simply listens." There is a quiet steadiness in her voice, a reassurance without denial. "If the time you speak of comes, we will meet it together."
Zahara’s gaze lingers on Ophelia for a moment longer, absorbing the quiet resignation beneath her words. She has known that feeling—the certainty of an ending long before it arrives. But the desert does not stop for what is inevitable; it simply endures.
She inclines her head, her voice calm, steady. “The desert does not ask why the wind sings—it simply listens.” A reassurance, not a refusal. “If the time you speak of comes, we will meet it together.”
Reaching for a date from the shared plate, her movements unhurried, she allows a small flicker of dry amusement to touch her lips. “But not tonight.”
Then, her attention shifts, drawn once more to the melody threading through the air. Zephirah’s song has not faltered, yet Zahara knows the need behind it—the way she carries music like a banner, demanding to be seen, to be felt. She will not let her voice fade into the background.
With the same measured grace, she gestures toward her. “And what of the one who weaves light into song?” Her tone holds the same quiet respect as before, when she had first spoken of Zephirah’s voice reaching where words could not. “Surely, you have a verse for such a night—one that speaks not of endings, but of what lies ahead.”
It is both invitation and acknowledgment. Even in the vast silence of the desert, the wind does not sing for itself. It sings so none may forget it is there.
When Ophelia seems to nod to her in response to her comments, Satina smiles at her. "We shall all take care," she replies softly. "That's good Ophelia." She seems relieved a bit. Or perhaps it's an effect of the drinks she's had. After filling her glass again, she comes back and sits down again, listening to Zephirah's song telling of the past. As the song seems to wind to an end she takes a small piece of the honey-soaked cake and tastes it. "This is amazing!"
Listening to Zahara ask for another verse, she calls out as well. "Zephirah, you should take a break. Enjoy some of this food. This cake with honey is amazing. You should have some fun before we have to head out into the desert."
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