They had lost a lot of cultural immersion and had gained a gamut of distinct smells of human refuse of all kind by exploring side-passages, but in the end it worked out, and none seemed wiser for it.
Here, the shouts of water sellers were much louder, as they had fanned out from the place they now reached. It was a large, two-story affair, and if one made their ears focus on it, sultry giggles could be heard coming from somewhere within it.
The name was Desert Sipwell. Against the garish background of almost anything around, only peppered with things of greater worth, this place spoke of relative opulence.
They weren't stopped from entering, though what they saw within might have given them a stop.
It was an antechamber, but arranged like a resting lounge, with rugs and colourful cushions scattered around, heavy curtains barring off the noise of the steet, pinkish glowglobes hovering around in random places. Fresh water in a sealed flagon, a true luxury, stood on a table in the middle of the room. There was no certainty where the passage is, as the walls were covered with suggestive tapestries and panoplies of beaded strings. In addition, incense burners had something choking sweet in them that permeated the space with a thin shade of smoke. The room, the water, the passages - had a guard, who was being fanned by a scantly dressed woman.
"I am Emrys Jago!" The man said in reverberating baritone that possessed hard 'r's and very song-like vowels, akin to an arena announcer. "What brings you to the Selamlik!" It sounded like he couldn't intone a question; everything sounded like a selling pitch. In the light of this understanding, he just might be on the offer, given his impeccably pedicured muscles, oiled-up skin, provoking pose and a dastardly smile. But the kindjal at his hip suggested he was still more than that.
Spice Sommelier 