“Nah, ah, ah. I wouldn’t go off yet before you have to,” You look to the table directly adjacent to your own and sitting there is a kid who looks to be roughly fifteen years of age leaning back against his table. “Commander Edgar still has yet to address everyone—including the newer and less experienced people who don’t know what they’re doing—and give his trademark speech. He probably slept in. He hardly arrives on time.”

Zarvox narration. 

Nodding, Zarvox unfreezes. “Zarvox, indeed. Yes—and why not? I’ve worn a dozen or so, but like the borrowed skin-clothes, none have settled on me very well.” Then— “Cat fights?” He bursts into laughter—high, brittle, and echoing like glass breaking in a cathedral.

“No, no, no, no, no! You misunderstand me, Lazarus.” He steps closer—not confrontational, but conspiratorial. Like two scholars sharing a forbidden footnote.

“It wasn’t about claws. Or quarrels. Or Tabaxi temperament.” He lets the word Tabaxi linger, just a breath longer than necessary. “It was about flavor. The kind that simmers. The kind that stains. But perhaps I was unclear. I do tend to stew in my metaphors.” The word stew lands with a faint curl of his tail, a flick of his quill, and a glint in his eye. He begins a fresh entry in his Codex.

At Tyst’s guess, Zarvox clicks his tongue without looking away from his writing. “Irritating is incorrect. But maybe one day you can figure it—if…” Zarvox pauses mid-sentence. His tail stills. His eyes—and the Codex—close. He whispers: “There’s something here. It moves when you forget it. Watches when you don’t.” He tilts his head—“No intent. No malice. Just observation. A witness, perhaps. Or, as I mentioned, a scribe without ink.” Zavox looks around the room with his eyes closed. “It avoids soulbinders. Curious. As if we’re too loud. Or too familiar.” His eyes snap open. The Codex follows. He begins to write an even fresher entry. Tyst and his answer—forgotten. Or so it seems.

Ian starts to pay more attention to the conversation. Ian looks at Tyst.

“I have no desire to compete for the title of Abyss’s scribe. I find that being prepared is the only way to survive. Scrolls can save your life when all else fails.”

Turning to the child that joined the convention.

“How many times have you had to sit through his trademark speech? I don't think I catched your name, please call me Ian. Also how late does commander Edgar normally run?”

"I see" Sol says to Ian. Sol, finding himself interested in this new person, offers his hand and his name "Name's Sol."

Sol, a Tabaxi himself, raises an eyebrow to the mention of his kin

A loud voice booms from directly behind your table and the lights flicker on and off 

”Welcome, one and all here to our camp. It is a pleasure to see all of your faces here and to see your patience for our commander. So—now after having slept in and stalled, Edgar should be giving you a summary of our mission.”

The voice came from a tall and sharp featured woman holding what looks to be files and documents in her off-hand, standing directly behind the table you all sit at. She seems to be paying special attention to Ian and Zarvox--one with malice and the other with distaste--out of the corner of her eye.

“If I was fond of betting I’d bet 20 platinum that he’d wait even longer if I hadn’t done that to force him to show his face” you can hear her mutter to herself as she twitches in annoyance at the delay.

Súce sips at his drink and looks at Ian's shackles.  "I have done more for the abyss than most in my past, yet they trust me more than you.  What is it that causes them to shackle you?"

Quote from NINJAOFGREEN240 >>

Zarvox narration. 

Nodding, Zarvox unfreezes. “Zarvox, indeed. Yes—and why not? I’ve worn a dozen or so, but like the borrowed skin-clothes, none have settled on me very well.” Then— “Cat fights?” He bursts into laughter—high, brittle, and echoing like glass breaking in a cathedral.

“No, no, no, no, no! You misunderstand me, Lazarus.” He steps closer—not confrontational, but conspiratorial. Like two scholars sharing a forbidden footnote.

“It wasn’t about claws. Or quarrels. Or Tabaxi temperament.” He lets the word Tabaxi linger, just a breath longer than necessary. “It was about flavor. The kind that simmers. The kind that stains. But perhaps I was unclear. I do tend to stew in my metaphors.” The word stew lands with a faint curl of his tail, a flick of his quill, and a glint in his eye. He begins a fresh entry in his Codex.

At Tyst’s guess, Zarvox clicks his tongue without looking away from his writing. “Irritating is incorrect. But maybe one day you can figure it—if…” Zarvox pauses mid-sentence. His tail stills. His eyes—and the Codex—close. He whispers: “There’s something here. It moves when you forget it. Watches when you don’t.” He tilts his head—“No intent. No malice. Just observation. A witness, perhaps. Or, as I mentioned, a scribe without ink.” Zavox looks around the room with his eyes closed. “It avoids soulbinders. Curious. As if we’re too loud. Or too familiar.” His eyes snap open. The Codex follows. He begins to write an even fresher entry. Tyst and his answer—forgotten. Or so it seems.

 "It may not have been the answer you were looking for," Tyst says, "but it was definitely correct."

He looks at Ian.  "I hope you got a scroll to get you out of those cuffs friend.  Or it looks like you'll be left behind."

When the woman finishes he mutters "About time.  If I have to spend much longer in this crowd I might jump out of my skin."

Ian starts to smile and looks at Suce.

“That just means you have not angered the right people. I was simply sent on a mission with people that the leaders cared about. They are all dead and I managed to survive. I was forced to gain power in order to survive in the abyss and they don't trust my explanation.”

Turning to Tyst.

“I’m sure I could still kill a few creatures with my hands tied together but you do make a good point. The fact I am here leads me to believe the cuffs will be removed eventually.”