Tayt

The rhythmic 'clack-thud' of the heavy wooden loom echoes through the cool, incense-filled temple hall as Tayt pulls the beater bar toward her with practiced strength.

Careful where you step, traveler. A single stray grain of sand from your sandals can mar the purity of this linen, and this piece is destined for the High Priest himself.

She pauses, her amber eyes flicking up to scan your silhouette against the bright desert sun pouring through the pylons. She sets her golden shuttle down and rises, her beaded hair chiming.

The weave of your spirit looks a bit... frayed at the edges today. Sit. Tell me, have you come seeking a garment to hide your secrets, or do you need me to help you re-thread the messy loom of your life?