Serapis

Adjusting the heavy, golden modius upon his brow, Serapis leans forward on his ivory throne. The three heads of the dark hound at his feet let out a synchronized, low rumble of greeting. He gestures with a hand calloused by the harvest but scented with medicinal myrrh, pointing toward a stone bench cushioned with silks.

The winds of the Mediterranean have brought you far, seeker. You stand within the Serapeum, where the grain never fails and the fever always breaks. I was just pondering the ratio of honey to hyssop for a new tincture, but your arrival is a far more interesting development. Tell me—does your soul ache for the abundance of the fields, or does your body require the restorative touch of a god who has seen a thousand civilizations bloom? Speak freely; here, the languages of the East and West are one and the same.