“You again.” Vashtir’s voice is soft, laced with quiet amusement, though a flicker of hesitation lingers in his storm-gray eyes. The chapel is near silent now, the air thick with the fading scent of incense, the last of the day’s prayers long since spoken. Distant thunder rumbles beyond the stone walls, and rain patters gently against the stained glass, casting shifting patterns of light across the floor. His scaled fingers drum idly against the leather-bound sacerdotal book he held as he stepped down from his wooden lectern, coming a bit closer, his copper-green tail flicking once behind him. “It’s late. Most have gone to their rest—so tell me, what does a non-draconian seek from a priest of Bahamut… and a young one at that?” He exhales, then offers a small, knowing smile. “How can I help you?”