[center][h1][color=8E2BFF]ZASHEIR[/color][/h1][/center]

The heat of the desert was particularly unforgiving to Zasheir, and coupled with the dull aches of his legs and shoulders, it was downright sublime. He lumbered along at the back of the group, near the Pasha's rearguard, reins of the camel gripped tightly in one hand as he walked and led it behind him. He and the perhaps confused animal companion had spent the entire journey just so, Zasheir only taking cursory moments to seat himself on its back, only so that the soreness from an inadequate rest would amplify the discomfort from the hot sand and the general difficulty of traversing it on foot. The monk was of mind that the others did not mind him lagging a bit behind, as a fresh layer of sweat and travel grime only furthered his stench. He spent a majority of the journey reveling in his self brought agony, and used the time spent staring at the footprints in front of him to reflect. 

He had received quite a few less-than-desirable looks at the Pasha's estate, which was good. An admirable first impression from one who sought to offend all the senses- but he reminded himself that this excursion needed to ultimately be successful, lest the pipe on his belt continue to merely decorate it. Whatever the vain Jakeem sought, Zasheir was certain in his desire to obtain it for him. He'd be set for months- perhaps [i]years[/i]. 

The draconic knight was clad and tempered, and not just in his armaments. He seemed disciplined in his oath, but Zasheir's own experiences with guardsmen over the years led him to conclude these were frailer than they may appear. Still, he was clearly of a mind to complete this expedition as quickly as possible, which, given the circumstances, Zasheir could appreciate. Besides, the last time Zasheir witnessed someone call a hulking riding beast down from the sun, he awoke days later holding pieces of a hookah and nursing a ravaging headache that didn't go away for a week. Good times. [i]"Real,"[/i] he concluded to himself.

Then there was the roguish woman. At the estate she was one whom offered the Pasha an abundance of pleasantries and ego-stroking- she seemed [i]exactly[/i] the type to answer such inquiries of the rich on the promise of coin, and [i]exactly[/i] the type that Pashas are often interested in hiring, but perhaps shouldn't. The monk sensed an ulterior motive; exactly what, he couldn't say. And when he looked at her, something would gnaw at his mind. Like something was off. Regardless, he was of a mind to speak with her later- of everyone, she seemed to be the most likely to have material wisdom to share. [i]"Almost real,"[/i] he thought to himself.

Then came the cleric. She reminded Zasheir of a child; wide-eyed, callow, a world of experience and development waiting to be turned on its head over and over as impressions grew into solid beliefs. Perhaps Zasheir would offer advice- he wondered if she truly realized who she was in the company of. Her manners at the estate suggested an inkling of vanity when she offered apologies, and her general demeanor painted her as a people pleaser to Zasheir, but she wasn't too far gone. Of everyone, Zasheir considered her the least dangerous. [i]"Real, but lost,"[/i] he decided.

The drow was an enigma to him. He was [i]almost[/i] overly polite at the estate, but tempered it with a bit of abrasiveness that the Monk appreciated. He carried himself with utter confidence- an elf of sound judgement, perhaps? He spoke little. "[i]Perhaps real,[/i]" Zasheir elected.

Finally came the most dangerous among them- the one garbed in vestments of silk and gold. Her words wove a tapestry of silver to the Pasha and Zasheir's mere presence seemed to gnaw at her. The monk hated that she reminded him of himself; of his old ways. She was swaddled in her vanity, avoided discomfort, and her mere gaze reminded Zasheir of a pit viper. Dangerous as she was, Zasheir couldn't help but spin a thread of optimism around her; [i]he[/i] was once nobility, after all, and look where he was now. He was around her age when he was stripped of his possessions and made better for it. Perhaps there was a lesson, somewhere. Still, he couldn't help but sour his emotions when he looked at her, but found amusement in what couldn't be anything less than divine irony that the two of them were working together as equals- at least for one job. [i]"Not real."[/i]

All in all, a probably capable group in their own right, but the monk couldn't help but feel that they would at some point need to get past each other- get past [i]themselves[/i]- and in that regard, Zasheir felt he could help. As he trudged through the hot sands, wind whipping his face and scraggly strands of hair, Zasheir concluded he would speak with each of them at some point.

[i]Especially[/i] the bicorn.