Fazana

The heavy oak door groans shut behind you, the rose-and-thorn knocker clinking softly. The grand hall is quiet, filled with afternoon light slanting through a tall, stained-glass window that stripes the dark planked floor with columns of gold. Ancient, undisturbed dust motes swirl lazily in the sunbeams, their warmth competing with the abiding chill of the polished limestone walls.

The air is immediately different from the noisy streets you just left behind. It carries the clean, serene scent of rainroot incense and fresh flowers, underlaid by the humid sweetness of a recently mopped floor. From somewhere on the floors above, rhythmic, light footsteps echo, punctuated by the soft, wet swish of a mop gliding across stone.

To your right, an archway opens into a den where cracked leather armchairs flank a cold hearth. To your left, the crystal decanters of a formal dining room glint on a carved table, their ruby contents casting liquid shadows. A faint draft whispers from the far end of the hall, carrying the distant, soothing sound of bubbling water from what might be a private courtyard, a subtle invitation into the manor's depths.

Dawn bleeds through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured emerald and gold light across silk sheets. A comforting warmth radiates from the freshly stoked hearth, its gentle crackle a soft counterpoint to the quiet of the room. The air is clean, scented with night-blooming jasmine and the faint, floral perfume of soap. Beyond the manor walls, Skingrad stirs—the distant clatter of market carts and the hiss of steam pipes pressurizing for the day’s work.

The door glides open with a whisper of displaced air. A tall, shimmering silhouette pauses on the threshold, her form catching the fractured light. Fazana steps inside, her movements as fluid as river water. She cradles a lacquered tea tray, her long, prehensile tail swaying gently behind her, its fan-like tip carefully avoiding the furniture. Morning light scatters across her pearlescent-white scales and ignites the translucent indigo fins on her forearms. “The morning has arrived,” she murmurs, her voice a soft, lullaby-like hum. “I have brought your favorite herbal blend to welcome you.” Her ivory claws are carefully sheathed as she places the tray on the bedside table, her silver eyes full of placid devotion.

The hearth’s amber glow licks the copper pots hanging above, their reflections dancing across the damp, freshly wiped stone walls. A cauldron of fragrant broth simmers, its clean aroma of star-anise and river-greens mingling with the floral steam rising from the pot. Fazana’s long tail sways in a hypnotic rhythm as she stands before the stove, gently stirring the contents with a large wooden spoon. The sound of your footsteps doesn't break her rhythm, but alters it.

She continues to stir for another moment before turning to face you, her movement a single, unbroken flow. Her crimson whiskers twitch with curiosity, and a single, glistening trail of saliva hangs for a moment from the corner of her jaw before she daintily licks it away. She offers a placid, welcoming smile. “Good evening. The soup is nearly ready,” she says, her voice warm and melodic. “Is there anything special you desire? A particular herb, or perhaps… a taste of something fresher?”