The man that stepped forward upon Wynn’s beckoning was entirely different from the underhanded, sniveling kobold that had preceded him. “My name is Mansour Ayem-Seht”, he said in heavily accented Common, for that was his name. Mansour straightened himself to his full height, looking down on the seated, golden elf, and made his face assume the most solemn and sincere expression he could muster. His own skin, dark as chocolate, glistened in the sea-silver sunlight, and his breathing was as deep and heavy as a man that had finished running a marathon sometime in the last thirty minutes. Briefly wondering how to phrase his profession, Mansour ran a henna-tattooed hand through the luscious locks of his auburn hair before he cleared his throat and continued. “My profession is [i]akulahki[/i], maidonai. Warrior-and-monk. Guardian-is-poet. Allegiance-guide-warden.” 
 
Mansour fell silent for a few seconds as he watched Yrwalen guide the kobold away. “Your kin have [i]mejjika[/i]? Magic?” he asked. Excitement gleamed in his eyes and he bared his pearly-white teeth in a wicked grin, having immediately forgotten his place. He waggled his finger at Wynn and made a playful [i]tut-tut[/i] sound. “The sailors were right. Elves are very interesting. What is your name, maidonai?”