For some time now, Zoltan has desired to see the Master of the Underside, Faraon the Friend, but has always been turned away due to 'more pressing concerns'… Finally however, help has come from an unlikely source:

Some time ago, a certain specially marked Savanite became aware of the activities of a Shiga operating variously under the names of Bambridge, Woodrow the Wondrous, and the Wooden Shekel. She also discovered that this Shiga had gone to some troubles to obtain a slave, Corpselicker otherwise known as Yellow Feather, and deduced from this that he might be willing to help Savanite causes, in exchange for certain… Well, the details of such an arrangement have been carefully concealed from Zoltan, so that her friend in crime will not have his ears (such as they are) sullied by minor details, but suffice it to say that…

The Exile known for the moment as the Wooden Shekel has recently received an invitation to visit Faraon the Friend at his convenience… Which is to say tonight, at the beginning of night when the walkers of the shadows are just waking, he is allowed one "guest" – perhaps a servant, perhaps a bodyguard, or perhaps a friend desirous of seeking audience with Faraon himself.

A black shape zips around from the top of the island, riding the strange flows of air that generate down on the underside. It curves down a bit and then angles upwards… aiming for the structure known as Faraon's dome.

Slowly coming into view are the guards who stand to both sides of the door. Today it appears that Nagai are the choice of guardians, two larger cobra specimens carrying halberds and slung behind their backs, muskets. Their armor glints of chitin. They make a formidable display of intimidating wealth and prowess.

The great stalactite holding the Dome extends downward from Rephidim's underside like a chubby, sharply pointed finger studded with a gaudy emerald ring. Although it would seem a fairly central location, and, by appearances to strangers, surely a center of activity, the various fliers seen flitting from rocky outcrop to suspended ledge to recessed hole are mostly concentrated in areas that leave a fairly clear region about the Dome.

Beneath the winged black mass of muscle and feathers is clutched an angular bundle of gray, with a green snout poking out the top of it, and a slender tail flapping about in the air currents. The figure's eyes, though already beneath a cowl, are squeezed tightly shut, and muttered prayers can almost be heard over the howl of the wind.

"Hang on… we goings to land now." Zoltan scrawks, angling his flight and pounding a downbeat of air on the two Naga guards as he slows himself. "I hope Faraon is expecting you… otherwise we goings to have to get out of here real quick."

Bambridge's voice is a tense croak… "I'm expected… just … ugh, just try to stop swinging around so much, and put me on something solid and comfortably dark… "

The Naga guards stand their ground, such as it is: they lean back into their coils as the wind fans about them, and then one of them, bearing a harness with a twinkling white gem over his breastplate, smirks. "Have you an invitation to see the Master tonight, Vartan? Or are you bringing back a load of laundry?" He peers down at the bundle of gray and green.

Zoltan's hooved feet touch gently down on the landing platform. He tries to set his 'passenger' down while squawking to the guards, "I bring a guest of the Master, I am here as his guard."

White-and-Smirky peers down at the 'passenger'.

"I am a guest of your master," hisses the dun lump in Imperial. Most of the tremoring is covered in the thick hissing accent. "Direct us to our proper places."

Bambridge finishes, "To whom it may concern, the Wooden Shekel has arrived."

The guard looks surprised that the lump speaks in Imperial, then hisses back, "May I see your invitation then?"

A boney green paw extends itself from the grayish ball, bearing a sealed scroll. He taps the whatever portion of the guard he can reach with the end of it.

Zoltan works on briefly preening his feathers while his passenger gets his invitation checked out.

The guard looks less than amused. "Since when is our master inviting the underlings? You had better show better posture than that before you go into his presence, Wooden Shekel. Unless you're applying for a position as court jester." He takes the scroll and unrolls it, snapping the seal with a sharp-sounding 'crack!' and then reads it. "Ah yes. You are indeed expected and welcome into Faraon's Hall, along with your… guest?"

The other guard, wearing a red gem on his breastplate, chuckles to himself. "A moment. We'll need to be sure you aren't carrying any weapons. Your 'friend' looks well armed, but we wouldn't want you to give our master the impression you don't trust him to keep the peace around here, eh?"

The ball uncurls finally, extending vertically until the mass looks more like a standing individual, if a somewhat hunched one. "Very well. The guest is my guard. I carry no weapons, but you may search me if you wish."

White-and-Smirky nods over to Red-and-Snide, who approaches Zoltan, hands out…

The Vartan eyes the shiny red gem, briefly contemplating what it would be like to get a job in the dome if he got to wear such shiny armor. He gives his head a shake and goes back to preening his feathers, since the strange hissing language means nothing to him.

Red-and-Snide reaches out for Zoltan's flintlock. He says in Rephidim standard, "You won't need your weapons inside, friend." His tailtip flickers in private laughter.

Zoltan looks at the approaching guard and takes a step back, he looks to Bambridge before willingly handing his weapons over.

White-and-Smirky pats Bambridge down lightly and impersonally, but seems disappointed to find no weapons particularly noteworthy.

The lizard nods at Zoltan before looking at Red-and-Snide. "Be certain my servant's possessions are kept safe." he hisses. "It is expensive to equip them so."

"Of course," Red-and-Snide says lifting his nose in the air as if insulted that the Wooden Shekel could think otherwise.

Nodding his head, Zoltan hands his flintlock and his crossbow over. "Very expensive." he agrees.

Red-and-Snide insists on doing a pat-down search, but having done so, finds nothing unusual, which raises the Naga equivalence of an eyebrow. "A little underdressed for Darkside, are we?" he says with snakey laughter.

White-and-Smirky sniffs at Red-and-Snide. "This is hardly Darkside," he reminds the other guard, then bows low. "Very well then, you are welcome to my master's demense, Wooden Shekel, and your guest as well. Be assured that we shall hold your guard's weapons in good trust and that they will be returned in good time… "

Red-and-Snide deposits the weapons in a locker just out of sight behind some stalagmites, then reaches up to haul upon a long rope. A bell tolls somewhere out of sight, low and ringing.

Bambridge returns the bow stiffly, and then nods. "I do not wear the trappings of amateurs, but I'm sure my assistant's belongings will be safe in your care." The shiga looks around for a moment, trying to discern where the bell's tone has come from.

Zoltan smirks to himself, flicking his tail back and forth.

The doors slowly open inward… They stand fourty feet tall, but the hall within is surely eighty, and decorated with massive amounts of stonework and gilt, enough to bedazzle any visitor.

A small garter snake slithers forward, dressed in herald's regalia to lead the Wooden Shekel and the Vartan through the halls, which rise upward through successive stairs and long slopes and twist around caverns which appear like bubbles within the massive rocks of Rephidim, wound around their sides with ledges and crossed with bridges…

After what feels like an hour of walking carefully designed to intimidate with the vastness of Faraon's wealth and personal estate, the two emerge into a room so much smaller than the rest that it is likely to give one momentary claustrophobia. Except for certain Shigai of course.

This looks like a private dining room, perhaps thirty feet on a side; Faraon is curled Naga-fashion, a lengthy draconine figure, upon a large pile of cushions that strain under his weight, before a table large enough to seat twelve, and on the far side, a grass snake tinted from violet to red at the tip is veiled and wrapped about in silk shawls, swaying side to side in what looks like a Naga belly dance. Servants are just now bringing in the appetizers, little bugs with colored sugar-jewels and edible 'gilt' icing.

The golden dragon glances sideways to nod to Bambridge and his guest as the herald leads them in and shows them to their places…

Zoltan pauses upon his entrance to give the great dragon a deep bow, inwardly hoping that the extra effort will impress Faraon enough to help him purchase Moon-Brow. After he rises he moves to his designated seat, keeping his eye on the servants.

The cloaked figure sweeps one corner of his cape over a shoulder, and kneels, and bends his back until his nose nearly touches the floor, one paw held to the side. After holding this more traditional bow for a moment, he touches the floor with his chin, and slides into a prone position.

The painted snake-dancer never ceases her swaying as the guests enter, performing upon an arrangement of hoops that allows her to slither through them with sublime grace. She carries four more hoops in four arms, juggling them from one side to another, then pausing to wind her entire length through the wide circles of gold, without ever once losing her grip.

The Vartan appears to ogle at the dancer for a bit, although his interest is focused more on the shiny gold hoops than the movements of the one dancing with them.

Faraon glances with amusement toward the servant who sits without groveling, and then moves forward and about the side of the table – reminding Zoltan of his immense bulk, forty feet long, to perfunctorily 'tread' upon Bambridge, forcing the breath out of the shiga for a moment. He returns to his place, curling again. "Welcome to the Court of the Underside, Wooden Shekel," he hiss-whispers to Bambridge. "You are indeed a worthy addition, having demonstrated not only skill but also a familiarity with the etiquette of your own homeland that would put many of your 'associates' to shame… "

The golden dragon gestures for Bambridge to sit. "But then, they are not truly your 'associates', are they?"

"It is a supreme honor to kneel in the precense of the mighty Faraon, Who Holds All of Darkside in His Palm," hisses the shiga with a slight gasp of returning breath. He stands, and goes to take his seat. "In a manner of speaking, they are, and yet, they are not. It has been some time since I have visited Imperial lands."

Faraon beams. "Perhaps there may be an opportunity for you to visit those lands again, if you would desire it," he says in Imperial. "Are you nostalgic for the sights of the Imperial Palace again?" He glances toward the Vartan, and then shifts his head to look back toward Bambridge. The golden dragon never looks directly at anyone, always weaves his head side to side to see them from one eye, then the other.

The dinner proceeds while the guests speak, servants bringing appetizers, then entrees, each course joined by another differently-colored liquor.

Bambridge draws his hood back now that he has had an oppourtunity to sit. It simply wouldn't do to look as if he were hiding. Still he keeps his eyes mostly averted. "As for my associate, he is perhaps less well trained in the subtle nuances of the nobler arts, but he is a skilled and formidable warrior. Perfect to look after one's interests." With a slight smile, the shiga nods. "And yes, though your palace dims the majesty of the imperial stronghold, there is a touch of nostalgia that tugs me back."

The four-armed snake dancer bows to Faraon, holding all four hoops before her, and receives polite applause from the golden dragon, before she slithers up to join the others at the table, glancing toward the Wooden Shekel with interest beneath her painted eyelids.

"How fortuituous," the golden dragon whispers. He pays little attention to Zoltan, the Vartan having been described as a mere guard. "There may be a vacancy in my organization there, a high-ranked position for one who can be discreet and mingles well with nobility. Do try some of the honey-fried locusts, my friend."

Several Savanites sit in attendance near the guests, awaiting the pleasures of their master, and others filter from and to a door in the back of the room, which presumably leads toward one of several kitchens. In a palace this size, it's not practical to serve every place from one giant kitchen. None of these, however, look to be Marked…

Bambridge selects a locust, quirking his head to one side slightly. "Ahh, a position in the Empire, you say? Such a coveted oppourtunity! An excellent chance for someone who has, say, had extensive dealings with Imperial nobility, procuring rare items with a minimum of fuss." The locust goes down the hatch, Bambridge savouring a rare taste of rich food…

Quietly eating his meal, Zoltan allows another smirk to play across the edges of his beak. "I a bit rusty at guard-work. Been a businessman too long, my apologies if I offended." he scrawks to Faraon and Bambridge.

One slave among the many looks a bit out of sorts, though, perhaps a new addition to those assigned to wait upon Faraon at his table, rather than performing more menial chores. Her hair is stringy, roughly bound into a ponytail behind her head with a green scarf that also wraps around to cover her forehead and neck. She carries a tray to the table, glancing quickly but not so subtly at Faraon's latest guests, and quickly leaving once her little task is done.

"No offense is taken where none is intended, my friend. What sort of business do you conduct on Rephidim?" is the soft Standard reply from Faraon's fanged muzzle. He glances with one eye toward Zoltan, and then murmurs as an aside to Bambridge in Imperial, "Indeed, a minimum of fuss is the very thing I desire, Wooden Shekel. It has come to my attention that certain people have been asking questions in Darkside… There was even a Templar who visited the Missing Shekel, with heavy accompaniment of course… "

The Wooden Shekel nods, turning a paw slightly to indicate his associate. "I do an injustic to the talents of my associate here, Master Faraon. Though perhaps indelicate, he wields signifigant knowledge of business workings, and such. My choice in him was merely temporary, as I typically prefer to work alone in particularly sensitive matters." A sip of chilled wine smooths his voice out. "A Templar? Very recently? Oh dear, I hope he didn't cause signifigant inconvenience."

The snake dancer wraps several shawls about herself, looking more like a noble lady now than a common exotic dancer. She casts a knowing smirk toward Bambridge, though there's no indication what exactly it is that she knows, and flicks her tail, eating with one set of arms and playing with wrist bracelets of some pretty gold-hued wood with the other.

Zoltan's eyes follow the slave, he aches to leap from his seat to go after her, but remains where he is. He answers the dragon instead, "I co-own Nicodemus' Shiny Shoppe in Scholar's quarter, you maybe aware that we considered building second shop near the dome for awhile." He sips lightly at his own drink, making a point not to overindulge and slow his reflexes. "I also starting to work with trading slaves, word has it that you own best slave gardener in Rephidim."

Bambridge keeps the serpentine dancer in his field of vision while the Vartan takes his turn to speak. The polite smile he has worn through the meal broadens a tiny bit for a split second before he returns his attention to the dealings at hand. Paw, rather.

"Oh, no great inconvenience, Wooden Shekel, everyone simply pretended to be far greater simpletons than they already were," Faraon says with amusement. "They went away quite dissatisfied. However, you perceive my predicament: it's bad for business to have the Temple constantly snuffling about one's affairs. Consequently, before I settle the question of who would be most ideal to take charge of very lucrative affairs in the Empire, I'd like to propose a small test of your abilities… "

The golden dragon turns back to Zoltan, just a hint of an apology in his eyes for having forced him to wait; he seems quite affable and not at all the intimidating despot of underground crime that the rumors have made him out to be. "Indeed? As you are undoubtedly aware, a great many of our customers here are Vartan. I'm certain that a lucrative market would exist for your goods here… What was your name? I like to know with whom I'm doing business."

"A test from the illustrious Faraon himself is a task any would greatly relish," replies the lizard, with just of hint of academic eagerness. "Even the inconvenience the Temple causes is but a minor obstacle should it intersect your command."

"My name is Zoltan Cambio, I am also known as Baron of Paradys." the hippogryph answers. "We may still build shop, but that bit of business not happen for awhile yet."

The snake dancer lowers her eyelashes as she nibbles on one of the entrees, a length of Bromthen ham twisted about and baked into a spiralling pattern with several pieces of reddish fruits studded along its length. She continues to 'flirt' her looks at Bambridge, distractingly. He's never had a Naga lady of apparently noble demeanor pay attention to him before.

"A Baron of Paradys? Surely a fascinating tale, if you do indeed hail from that legendary Vartan trove of treasures, my friend," Faraon says. "Perhaps you might tell it over dessert."

The golden dragon then turns to whisper softly to Bambridge, his customary level of voice. "As it happens, you may find the task relevant to your own case… I am apprised that there are certain documents in the custody of the Temple which are highly interesting… Perhaps uncomfortably so, from my point of view. If you understand what I mean?"

Zoltan smiles and raises his cup to the dragon. "Truth be told, there not much to tell… legends not always as impressive when you find out they truth. But I be happy to tell you whats I can… maybe you can tell me abouts you gardener as well?"

Just as Faraon is about to reply to Zoltan, a raised eyebrow suggesting a question about why Zoltan might be so interested in gardeners…

Perhaps it's a trick of the light, but the Wooden Shekel's scales looks slightly brighter than when he first came in, a bold emerald shade with a glossy sheen. He steals a glance at the noble lady every so often when he thinks she's not looking, careful to maintain his 'proper place'. However, he keeps the majority of his attention on Faraon. "I do believe I know what you mean. The Temple seems obsessed with keeping sensitive records. Really, it's downright impolite of them to have such disregard for privacy. Would it please you to have this irksome situation rectified?"

The Savanite that Zoltan had singled out earlier for his interest trips over an unfortunately timed swing of the grass snake dancer's tail. She falls forward, a tray holding a carafe of golden wine toppling over, her eyes opening wide in surprise…