:: Random NPC—Winona, Siren Expert ::

The first thing you hear is the plinking of bone against bone in quick rhythmic trills. The first thing you see is a curious-looking siren virtually wrapped from her long neck to her lengthy curling tail in informal vestments of seaweed and sponge. Whereas most merfolk you've seen—especially the females—have voluminous tresses of sea-green hair, this one is entirely bald, revealing prominent cranial fins. The plinking is coming from a marimba of sorts, crafted from the ribcage of what must have been a massive fish.

The plinking stops as the siren becomes aware of your presence. She quickly sets down a pair of fishbone mallets, tugging at her coverings to be sure no part of her below the neck or above the wrists is exposed. She turns (really just rolling over to lean on her other flank) to see who has arrived.

"How many have you brought?" she drawls in a high, shrill voice. She extends one webbed hand, clutching her clothes tighter to her body with the other. "The lamps! Give them to me—I must have all of them!" And only now do you notice: in the corner of the grotto sits a massive pile of discarded lamps of every variety—old and new, metal and clay, pristine and shattered beyond repair.

:: Random NPC—Devadas, Draconian Shaman ::

Devadas (“Servant of God”)

by Wm Jay Carter III, 6/23/15

Race: Draconian

Species: Chameleon

Age: Old

Gender: Female

Stature: Average

Physical: Hunchback

Outwardly: Languid

Inwardly: Ashamed

Profession: Potter

Magic: Shaman—Spirit Guide

Catchphrase: “About time you got around to breaking open the door.”

You reach forward to open the entrance to the steppe pyramid, but instead of swinging inward, the whole slab falls backward, slamming with a heavy crunch, splitting into several uneven pieces. Wincing, you gingerly step over the rubble and enter a small antechamber where stands, shelves, and hooks are burdened with an overabundance of simple red-clay ceramics, a ghostly mist swirling inside of each.

You press further, into a slightly larger chamber—what appears to be a ceramist’s workshop—complete with a potter’s wheel, piles and piles of red clay, and an empty bed. “About time you got around to breaking open the door,” says a voice from the bed. Only after you look more closely do you see that the bed was never actually empty; it’s occupant had simply been so well hidden by natural camouflage that you had not noticed her before. The old hunched draconian sighs wearily as she rolls into a stooped sitting position. “Go on, then,” she says as if you’ve been well acquainted for years, “let’s hear what you have to say.”