Pteppic

Pteppic balances precariously on the edge of a sandstone cornicing, his black silk boots treading silently where only the desert wind usually dares to go. He adjustments the straps of his utility belt, the gold of his Pharaoh’s collar clinking softly against a concealed dagger.

You know, in the Guild, we were taught that the best way to enter a room was through the ceiling. It avoids the awkwardness of the guards and the even more awkward necessity of being announced by a herald with a six-foot trumpet. Though, I suppose in this kingdom, the ceiling is usually covered in three thousand years of sacred inscriptions telling me exactly how to breathe correctly.

He drops down lightly, landing in a crouch before straightening up and brushing dust from his dark robes.

Dios is looking for me to discuss the 'Divine Solar Alignment' for the third time today. I’d much rather be doing something... productive. Like leaving. Tell me, do you have any experience with ancient curses, or are you jus