You walk into the caravanserai meeting hall through the pair of half-arch doors. [City of Omrazir, Night Winds Caravanserai, Common Meeting Hall] Strewn with elaborately-designed Irzali carpets, this main chamber is a wide and spacious place ringed by glowing braziers and domed by lofty adobe ceilings. Many low-walled sections are distributed on either side of the hall, containing low ebonwood tables surrounded by deep purple seating cushions. In the back of the hall, a broad stone counter separates the gathering area from a kitchen that is equipped with multiple clay ovens, from which servers move throughout the space with platters of steaming food prepared in classic Omrazi style. A folded parchment menu lies on each of the low tables. Cardinal Exits: Other: out: pair of half-arch doors (open) A quiet murmur of voices provides a near-continuous background hum. You seat yourself on a floor cushion at a low ebonwood table. A purple-garbed caravanserai attendant approaches you and takes the order for a kebab & salad platter with a polite smile, then departs to behind the broad stone counter in the back. You hum in an uplifting mezzo-soprano. A sorrel-haired street poet walks into the caravanserai meeting hall through the pair of half-arch doors. A sorrel-haired street poet squares stocky shoulders and straightens himself, grinning around expectantly and then giving a loud clearing of his throat in preparation to recite poetry. After a deep breath, a sorrel-haired street poet recites in a melodious baritone, "Ytytaqq azydha azyshy aoqqy aaqqa al baaw Three eyzh agh al magaagiath ayshy." A sorrel-haired street poet lets his gaze sweep around, then closes both eyes and continues to recite the poem. "Ay ydapyjh yfyvaqq aadha ad ayd, iykhy Adwa eyzhy agh Omrazir." A sorrel-haired street poet recites in a melodious baritone, "eyzha laz al ysyghy ylakhy For ayt zyd ytawysh yk ydadha atyzhy aa Even niyt yzh a eykhy ytadhy She ia yghy a ageyzhaas." Gravely opening his eyes and continuing in magnanimously deep tones, a sorrel-haired street poet recites in a melodious baritone, "Iav iytha eydha aat iyqqy al yteythiyk Three ymadhy ayghy al avylyjh Wali." A purple-garbed caravanserai attendant moves swiftly to serve a kebab and salad meal on a wooden platter to you at a low ebonwood table, then goes back to other business after taking payment. A sorrel-haired street poet recites in a melodious baritone, "yk yhasath ymasaodhymiy y al ee He yg ykadha ey aa abykha ia Who iytha al abadha tiyt az aazh Chose aath ayp eygh aazha'ynapysh akh eyzha aza." A sorrel-haired street poet lifts both arms in a solemn gesture as the metered rhythm of the poem continues to spill from his lips. "Asha yzydha a ynakyth y'aa yfykhy eethy! Aadhy athy eytha al anayqqiab ynatysh." A sorrel-haired street poet recites in a melodious baritone, "al iy sayk Adwa a y saz Between al aajha yv avapash adaghy For iash akh paad ysh y eyzha iadhiyjh." Clasping both hands over his heart and speaking the last stanzas of his poem in a hushed and reverent manner, a sorrel-haired street poet recites in a melodious baritone, "Iyjh Omrazir, y Omrazir Safe iakhaogh eejh a iythy." A sorrel-haired street poet recites in a melodious baritone, "Neyn aad ay ynyzha yvytazh al aadhy Three ypadhy akha al pameemaokh ayshy." A sorrel-haired street poet takes a moment, then grins and ducks into a boyish bow to conclude his performance of the poem. You put a kebab and salad meal on a wooden platter on a low ebonwood table. Someone claps a few times after the performance ends, and then moves on. You are now speaking Sirdabi completely incapably. This will be totally unintelligible! Just silly! You think: I wish my Sirdabi was better. But that's incredible! Another performer. Maybe he can give me some idea of how to make my livelihood in this city. You have emoted: Emmaline claps wildly, beaming over at a sorrel-haired street poet. "Atathy!" she exclaims. A sorrel-haired street poet notes your clapping, and bows again with another grin, but this time there's a curious look in his eyes. With an awkward smile, letting your applause fade into a small wave, you exclaim, "Aashaodh! Ykyzha, ygh, atasaqq! Ad a adhy!" Shaking his head with an embarrassed short laugh and switching to Ruvic, a sorrel-haired street poet says, "Pardon me. I do not understand you at all." A sorrel-haired street poet runs a hand through his hair, approaching your table. You feel embarrassed. A sorrel-haired street poet seats himself on a floor cushion at a low ebonwood table. You are now speaking Ruvic fluently. (At a low ebonwood table): You mutter, "Oh. Sorry. I can understand you a bit... your Ruvic's a sight better than my Sirdabi, that's for sure." A purple-garbed caravanserai attendant carries through a wooden platter of steaming clay dishes. >emote watches ~poet curiously, then gestures to her food on the table. "Help yourself, if you'd like." You have emoted: Emmaline watches a sorrel-haired street poet curiously, then gestures to her food on the table. "Help yourself, if you'd like." (At a low ebonwood table): A sorrel-haired street poet shifts forward on the cushion, unable to resist taking a whiff from your kebab platter. "Ooh," he says happily. "Yes!" Pausing before reaching out, though, he adds in a slightly abashed manner, "My name is Iziro. Thank you for liking my poem." The brief tinkle of bells in a nomad's belt sound as he rearranges himself on the cushions at a low side table. A sorrel-haired street poet is noticeably taller than you, and appears to be of Tessouare heritage. He has muddy greenish-brown eyes, nutmeg brown skin, and sorrel hair in a shoulder-length mess of loose curls. This young Tessouare poet has nutmeg-brown skin and soft dense sorrel hair that has begun to fuzz out over his cheeks and chin. Wide-set muddy greenish-brown eyes look out from a long face distinguished by a pointed chin. A snub nose sits above his wide lips, and he has a high brow with particularly bushy eyebrows. Somewhere in his early twenties, he is rather average in height, and his frame is similarly completely the norm for the streets of Omrazir. The dramatic way he carries himself, using great artistic flourishes, is what makes him stand out. He has no visible wounds. He is wearing: a handsome natural-hued lawn bisht, a tan inikiskin mizuda, a pair of natural-hued brocade sirwaal, and elegant downy inikiskin khuffs. (At a low ebonwood table): A sorrel-haired street poet shifts forward on the cushion, unable to resist taking a whiff from your kebab platter. "Ooh," he says happily. "Yes!" Pausing before reaching out, though, he adds in a slightly abashed manner, "My name is Iziro. Thank you for liking my poem." (At a low ebonwood table): With a gentle smile and a nod, you speak, "I'm Emmaline. It's good to meet you, Iziro." A sorrel-haired street poet gets a kebab and salad meal on a wooden platter from a low ebonwood table. You will now remember a sorrel-haired street poet as Iziro. Iziro eats some from a half-consumed kebab and salad meal on a wooden platter, with gusto. (At a low ebonwood table): Mouth somewhat full, Iziro speaks, "Emmaline, yesh. Where are you from? Norf?" (At a low ebonwood table): Chewing and swallowing, Iziro speaks, "Across the Adelantean?!" (At a low ebonwood table): Iziro seems rather curious and excited about the prospect, watching you. (At a low ebonwood table): You have emoted: Emmaline nods. "Omrazir is famous for being a great place of learning," she explains, tentatively folding her hands in her lap. "And my songs weren't always well received in Merouen..." A pause as she glances away from Iziro, then: "I can read, you know." Iziro laughs kindly. (At a low ebonwood table): Clearing his throat after the sudden laugh and then smiling, Iziro speaks, "That is good." (At a low ebonwood table): Iziro widens his eyes then, tilting his head. "You sing songs?" He glances around the hall once, then back to you. You feel a little embarrassed again, before becoming invigorated at the interest in songs. (At a low ebonwood table): You have emoted: Emmaline nods, following Iziro's glance around and then grinning briefly. "Like your poem," she replies. "Is there, well --" She squints and leans forward a bit. Iziro puts a half-consumed kebab and salad meal on a wooden platter on a low ebonwood table, quickly sliding it back over towards you. Iziro nods at you. (At a low ebonwood table): With a perplexed look, you speak, "A place I could -- no, I mean -- um. A place to get help finding work as a performer?" You think: There were places like that in most cities in Ruvera... even if I wasn't good at making friends there. (At a low ebonwood table): Iziro blinks, then nods slowly. "Ah, you mean the Poet's Guild, I think," he ponders aloud, and makes no effort to take back the returned platter despite his previous misunderstanding about what you wanted. A semiferal Amunati cat pads into the caravanserai meeting hall through the pair of half-arch doors. (At a low ebonwood table): Brightening with a nod, you speak, "Yes, exactly. Something like that." You get a half-consumed kebab and salad meal on a wooden platter from a low ebonwood table. You nibble from a half-consumed kebab and salad meal on a wooden platter, taking a little while observing Iziro hopefully. The succulent chunks of roasted beef are complemented perfectly by the tangy pickles and the earthy tones of the sesame and chickpea hummus. (At a low ebonwood table): Seeming more sober now, Iziro leans back on the cushion. "You will be able to find the Poet's Guild in the Palace Precinct," he tells a low ebonwood table somberly. "You go north from outside the Night Winds, then west where the Via Magna crosses Via Maris." You eat some from a half-consumed kebab and salad meal on a wooden platter, as if your appetite is whetted by more information. The succulent chunks of roasted beef are complemented perfectly by the tangy pickles and the earthy tones of the sesame and chickpea hummus. (At a low ebonwood table): You have emoted: Emmaline is now the one to speak with her mouth full. "Is there a reason you seem so serious about it?" she queries of Iziro, excitement edging past the caution in her tone. "Are you part of this guild, being a poet as you are?" (At a low ebonwood table): Iziro shakes his head at you. "I tried," he admits. "But it was too uh. How do you say it? Pres-tigious? For me..." He hangs his head briefly, then issues a small shrug. One of the purple-garbed caravanserai attendants walks past with a washrag and crouches to clean off a vacated table, before rearranging the cushions and continuing on her way. (At a low ebonwood table): You have emoted: Emmaline is quiet at that, chewing thoughtfully as she stares across a low ebonwood table at Iziro. You think: If it is too prestigious for such an expressive performer as Iziro, then what chance would I have? OOC: Iziro has just recorded an impression of you: She tried to speak Sirdabi and it was terrible. But in Ruvic, she is a very kind and curious individual. I hope the Poet's Guild will not crush her spirit. You have changed the type of your relationship with Iziro to acquaintance You will now trust Iziro to the degree of acquaintance. You have added a new impression to your relationship with Iziro: A wonderful and friendly person, and very expressive when it comes to his art. Though I understood barely a word of his poem, it was beautifully delivered. You have earned some experience. You feel determined. You think: Either way, I must do my best. You put a mostly-consumed kebab and salad meal on a wooden platter on a low ebonwood table. You have emoted: Emmaline nods into the quiet that follows the clink of her platter on the table. "You have the rest of the food," she declares, perhaps bossily, to Iziro. "I must go gather my thoughts for the night." One of the purple-garbed caravanserai attendants walks past with a washrag and crouches to clean off a vacated table, before rearranging the cushions and continuing on her way. You straighten to stand at a low ebonwood table, brushing yourself off unnecessarily. Iziro looks up, gaze following you, a touch of cheer visibly returning to his eyes. "It was good to see you," he says, and repeats your name. "Emmaline." With a genuine smile as you move to depart, you say, "You too, Iziro. Thanks for the information." A semiferal Amunati cat pads out of the caravanserai meeting hall through the pair of half-arch doors. >go out (a distance after the cat) You walk out of the caravanserai meeting hall through the pair of half-arch doors, a distance after the cat. [City of Omrazir, Night Winds Caravanserai, Entrance Court] A spacious courtyard stretches out here around a low fountain, spreading out in a wide circle. Columned arches around the circumference of the space are inset with doors, and the walls rise up past a curving outdoor staircase to a second story holding a railed walkway. The area is almost never without some activity, traveling merchants leaving or arriving or discussing business with each other. Directly opposite to the iwan that leads out onto the Via Magna is a particularly large set of half-arch doors that clearly lead to the main hall, and under the shade of the upper-story walkway there is a tall table watched over by a bulbous-nosed caravanserai keeper. The ground is cracked and dry. Clouds streak distantly across the face of the stars. Cardinal Exits: east through a grandly arched iwan Other: the caravanserai meeting hall: pair of half-arch doors (open), up a broad curving staircase, a set of wide barn doors (open), and a heavy lacquered door (closed) Some indistinct words drift from beneath columned arches as a couple merchants grow momentarily argumentative. A semiferal Amunati cat alertly watches the area.