The sands stirred. Rising within its glass cage, the hourglass flowed backwards in time. Deep within the bowels of the earth, the Last Emir coiled himself upon his throne of hardened sand. There he ruled in the center of his stolid chambers, the high domed ceiling depicting the might of Persia as a memory of the past. Lit by torches and candlelight, the darkness reigned over the twisting passages to the laboratory, training room and master chambers found even deeper into the descent. It was constructed to house Roshan, beneath the Tower, close at hand upon a leash. It was here where time reversed itself, just as the sands in the hourglass turned back upon themselves, that the light of today would never reach into the bowels of history. There, his golden mask hid his face replacing his visage with nothing more than a solemn foreboding as it caught the light of the dim fires. His red eyes narrowed at the doorway into his chambers, his senses feeling the footsteps of his visitor and the scent of the man. 

"A guessssssst. Sssseeeking audiencssssse, enter and sssssspeak..." Roshan hissed his words as his serpentine tongue flicked out between the thin opening of his mask. They had tried in the past to use more advanced methods of communications with Roshan, yet a cellphone, let alone a phone was deemed incompatible with the old naga. He had destroyed them in his inability to grasp their magic, the function of electricity was barely beginning to register for the anachronistic being, let alone how to use it. And so stuck in the past, the Hounds had retained him for his usefulness for he made various alchemic potions with fascinating effects and the ability to absorb memories of the devoured was also a nice boon. Yet he knew the real reason why they built him this feeble palace, and kept him in line with their threats to unseal the other one, for had they not intervened, he would rise to take the desert nations and reclaim his rightful throne...

It was not long after the message was delivered. did Roshan rise from his throne, his golden scales moving like lava as they unwound and snapped. The sands too did rise as his throne crumbled away into their basic elements, and provided their king with a path to thread upon. He was bound to the desert sands, and as such, could only travel if he carried sand with him. Thus he ascended into the Tower from beneath the ominous metal hatch which marked a descent into his lair, his army of sand close at hand as it cycled itself like a conveyor belt through the corridors of the Tower. The halls would fill with sand, halls of metal, glass and plastics, halls he found to be distasteful, halls lit by phantom fires.

Roshan opened the portcullis, the two steel doors pried upon as his sand slipped between their cracks and like a building flood widen them to their point of providing entry. The sands then rose into their platform as Roshan slithered in to the elevator shaft, twisting his serpentine body around the cables and ascending to the third floor with every turn. He was amused as to why these humans made these, small rooms which were lifted, in lieu of stairs, their cables alone would have provided adequate means of ascending to a higher floor. There he found the conference room marked 345B, a familiar room, though each time he found himself slightly more furious at the thought of being summoned like a dog to heel. The others would be able to tell of his arrival by the creeping sand which invaded the room beneath the doorway, before it swung open. With merely a glance to the others in the room, Roshan and his sand made his way over past the other chairs and with a tightening grip upon his staff, did he make his throne of hardened sand once more, the message after all did state to take a seat, and so he did take a seat with him.

chuckling to himself, Roshan studied the others, their scents clean unlike his own scent of dry desert sand.