His head swam as his eyes slammed open. The pupils unrolled from deep within his skull as his senses adjusted to being back within his chamber, one a t a time. As his vision cleared he saw plates cluttered on the desk with the half-picked remains of fowl and rice being accosted by flies. A vast array of velum sheets lay scattered over the surface of the stone desk stretching out in front of him, seeming to writhe with his scrawling notes. The heat in the room was oppressive, and it reeked of his own sweat and the food remains that had begun to turn. The servants did not enter when he was scrying, which accounted for some of the state of his quarters, however he wasn’t necessarily neat to begin with.
Scrying was not something that came easy too him, yet with no other way to observe the actions of Sultan Asaf yn Oron yn Yael yi Habhala, he little choice. The scrying, especially at this distance, took almost all of his efforts, and would have been all but impossible had one of Asaf’s retainers not unwittingly taken a focus he created as a gift. Because of the immense efforts, he was diligent about penning notes frantically, deciphering the scrawling words later in order to help remind him of what he had seen.
In attempt to do just that, he began shuffling through the papers in front of him, reading the snippets of text that, though written in his own hand, he did not recognize. He began to remember seeing Asaf and his companions fight their way to the back of the temple of Chauntea in Greenest. He watched the awkward interaction between the street rat Asaf had chosen as a companion for some reason, and the elf who looked to serve as the spiritual leader of the community (Mondath?).
Grasping for another sheet, as he read he remembered Asaf being told by the fiend he also kept company with, that the cult behind this, known as The Cult of the Dragon, had captured some dragon eggs as was keeping them in a liar to the east of the village. The infernal witch had conducted some sort of interrogation, and he was glad he had not watched.
Another rustle of paper, and his eyes scanned across writing that reminded him of seeing the pauper, handy with a bow, compel a blue wyrm to break off its attack on the keep with some well placed arrows.
The closest sheaf among the chaos was a vague description of a battle that took place at what he assumed must be a mill, though he had never seen one in person. He snickered as he remembered the scene. Assuming the form of the desert tarantula showed a certain amount of audacity on Asaf’s part, but also a lot of progress. Despite the invaders attempts, the Sultan and his rag-tag companions remained safe.
Half-heartedly he tried to gather up the parchments in an attempt to return some semblance of order to his desk, but his efforts proved futile. He was tired, and hot, and his scrying and left him with pressure behind his eyes and forehead. He rose from his chair, his diaphanous robes, sweat-soaked, clinging to the surface of the seat. A sour smell filled his nostrils as he rose, and he wanted nothing more than slip into a bath, then the sweet reprieve of slumber.
Before any of that, he had to report. Scowling at the state of himself and his chamber he flung the door open. The cool air of the palace hallway washed over him like a cleansing wave. The servant standing by outside his quarters leapt to her feet.
“I will need a fresh attire,” he said looking through her to his destination further down the hall. “Fetch it for me from within. Also, see to it that my quarters are returned to a their usual state.”
He made his way quickly through the hall way eager to deliver his report, smirking at the notion of going before the high Vizier in his soiled state. The game the Vizier now played at was not pretty, and he had no qualms about reminding him of it.
130 GP each.