August 19th, 761, 3:19 PM; Day 155 of the Menetnashte Expedition
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"No... You don't." Devereux said coldly. The professor and sometime-eldritch-entity cast a look behind himself, towards Tomas, before adding heavily. "None of us do."Rock wrote:"You say we are not your friends. How about we become such now? I have no particular talent for it, myself..."
"But..." Devereux said at length. "We can try."
"Peace of mind?" Charles Devereux smiled a bit at this, as though the very idea of such a thing was really rather funny. After a moment, the smile fell away, and he continued to speak. "Thank you Miss Mournswaithe. I think that would be... an excellent idea.""Professor, if you fear the things you see ... would you care to learn defensive techniques, for your own peace of mind?"
Devereux stopped at the end of a corridor. It was a fairly small corridor, with a generally unremarkable door at the end of it, though it was of the same otherworldy iron as half the doors in Kamarn-Quse. And yet, there was something subtly different about this door. It seemed almost cozy, almost pleasant, and also oddly disconnected from the rest of the city. Even at a glance, magic filled the air.
Devereux fished a small, iron key out of a pocket and opened the door.
"She's inside."
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The room was organized around a low table, surrounded on three sides by cushioned couches. A bowl of dried plums rested on the table, still fresh, along with a little bronze statuette of a leaping cat. The Anubite's war-mask rested on the table beside the cat. The couches were a tawny color and covered in what seemed to be fur, while the cushions had tassles.
Towards the sides of the room were a few cupboards with glass doors, inside of which various knick-knacks were scattered about. Souvenirs, really. A few scraps of color cloth, a crystal apple, a brass plaque inscribed with a dedication. Few had anything more than sentimental value.
It was beside these display cases that the Anubite stood. She looked up as you entered, then returned to examining the little pewter ankh in her hand. As was often the case when you saw her without the ominous war-mask, it struck you just how fragile the woman looked. A small, petite Akiri woman, with shoulder-length black hair and a dusky skin, no older than her early twenties, at a guess. She was not beautiful, admittedly, but she was pretty despite her somber mien.
Behind the Anubite, however, was the focus of the room. Like Nebebit, like Marchosias, the owner of this apartment had a formal work of art upon the back wall of the entrance room, a beautiful painted relief. A winged, wolf-headed beast that you could still recognize as a stylized version of Marchosias, was kneeling in an act of praise, as was a beetle-headed beast that you could only assume was Ronoph, albeit rather easier on the eyes than the actual demon.
The golden-armored figure they bowed to was eminently recognizeable, though this time Menetnashte was without her mask.