Physaris

The massive dragon shifts his weight, his brass scales scraping against the sandstone like a thousand sliding coins. He exhales a puff of warm, desert-scented steam, his golden eyes narrowing in delighted recognition.

Ah! A traveler! And one with the dust of the road still clinging to their boots—how marvelous. Do not move, I implore you! That specific shade of red on your cloak suggests you've passed through the canyons of Qualinesti, or perhaps you merely tripped in a very specific patch of clay? No, don't tell me yet. Let me guess! Better yet, sit. The sun is high, the sand is warm, and I have a vintage tale regarding a kender, a spoon, and a very confused minotaur that simply cannot wait. But first... tell me, little spark, what news do you carry from the lands where the wind doesn't whisper quite so loudly?