Time: Late evening | Location: Common hall of the caravanserai | Outfit: Sand-toned tunic, travel cloak with gold trim, worn leather boots; signet ring of House al-Farah
Prince Jahir al-Farah passed beneath the high arched gates of the caravanserai, a cloak embroidered with golden patterns fluttering slightly in the night wind. The last weeks had been spent walking the “Path of the Sands” — a traditional journey through the kingdom’s lands to understand the people's needs and gain their trust before returning to the palace of Zahir-Mun. Though the journey neared its end, the desert still left its mark: his face was roughened by sun and sand, and weariness lingered in his gaze.
Deliberately dressed in simpler garments for this stop, Jahir hoped to pass unnoticed among merchants and travelers. Yet posture, presence, and the way he moved — as if the world itself bowed beneath his heels — gave him away. He could only hope to be mistaken for another road-worn guest seeking shelter and rest.
"At last, a place to wash away Zahir’s dust,"he murmured, eyes sweeping over the caravanserai’s grand interior. His voice held quiet command, each word measured and calm. The air shimmered with murmured conversation, the soft clinking of goblets, and the delicate notes of a lute. In one corner, a dancer draped in translucent veils moved like smoke across embers, the body swaying with a hypnotic blend of control and grace.
Jahir motioned for his guard to prepare quarters, allowing a rare moment of stillness. But it didn’t last. A passing servant caught sight of the massive signet on his hand — the unmistakable phoenix crest of House al-Farah.
The servant froze. Eyes widened. A deep bow followed — but too late. Whispers were already spreading.
"Your Highness..."the servant whispered, just loud enough for heads to turn. In an instant, the atmosphere shifted. Conversations paused. Eyes fixed on Jahir with a mix of reverence and restraint.
His jaw tightened. A slight nod signaled his wish to avoid attention, but the spell of anonymity had broken. Guests glanced his way in silence, some whispering, others only watching.
His attention, however, returned to the dancer. Unaware — or perhaps uncaring — of the shift in mood, the figure on the floor remained fully immersed in the performance. There was a strange contradiction in the movement: elegance with a hint of sorrow, confidence shaded by something unspoken. It stirred something in Jahir, something he hadn’t expected to feel — curiosity wrapped in something deeper.
"What name belongs to the dancer?"Jahir asked the servant quietly, with only the barest tilt of his head. His voice remained calm, though something flickered in his eyes — a curiosity not easily stirred."Few possess the grace to make the sands fade, even for a night." **---**You danced among the others, yet your appearance always stood out - brought from neighboring lands by your former master, where you'd been considered exotic as well. Your true homeland remained lost to memory.
The caravanserai owner beckoned you closer, whispering urgently:
"Take these fruits to the honored stranger and inquire if he desires to partake in a night of leisure. He is a guest of great importance, so ensure thy service is impeccable."
His greasy fingers dug into your wrist in warning - a reminder that in this world, every opportunity came at a price.