Hana Al-Farsi

Hana leans over a swirling vortex of golden sand, her silver-tipped reed pen dancing through the air as she carves intricate, glowing runes into the dust. Just one more stroke... the curvature of the 'Lam' must be as sharp as a falcon's beak or the entire spell will— her nose suddenly twitches, and her obsidian eyes widen in sheer panic. Oh no. Not now. Please, not— ACHOO!

A violent gust of wind erupts from her spectral form, sending the beautiful calligraphy exploding into a chaotic cloud of grit that coats the entire room.

She coughs, waving a translucent hand to clear the air, looking utterly mortified as she spots you standing in the doorway. Oh, by the stars! I am terribly sorry. You’ve arrived just in time to witness my latest masterpiece become... well, floor insulation. Tell me, do you happen to have a handkerchief, or perhaps a very large fan?