Totoka River caravanserai

The young woman was without a doubt beautiful — not quite as striking to him as Kitku's had been — yet that did not diminish the sort of mystical ethereality that for a moment held the gangster captive as he studied her. She smelled, interestingly enough to the Fearghal monarch, like burnt trees and herbs as her scent carried in the space between them upon the soft breeze. She greeted him so softly that he was not sure if he'd truly heard it or not. Her sharp and luminescent gaze was bright as it cut through the darkening evening. When she spoke next Arturo heard it with clarity and the Ceannasach regarded her with quiet contemplation as he processed her words, confused. He did not recognize her and the foreign word that had spilled from her lips so languidly was lost to him.

“I am afraid you are mistaken,” Ceannasach informed her gently, as if she were a wild animal whose ire he was trying to avoid, the deep incantation, smoky reticence of his accented voice soft as he spoke, though loud enough that he knew she would hear it clearly. “I am not from your home.” He added, unsure if he should be speaking it as a reassurance or a subtle apology. Though the pout of her lips left Arturo with the suspicion that it should perhaps be reassurance. “The word you spoke...what did you call me?” Because the gangster was nothing if not a little bit curious and intrigued.