Elsewhere in the backstreets of Nahreen, a far cry from the palace, a rapidly-thickening semicircle of people had formed to observe a commotion. A young man had just come flying out of a doorway, followed by a harangue of increasingly-creative insults from within. As he collided chest-first with the pavement outside, a small cloud of desert sand was cast up from under him, sending him into coughs and splutters.

His budding audience laughed. After all, he did not look like the usual sort to be caught up in this kind of exchange. He was well-dressed, well-groomed: a carefully crafted appearance that looked noble by all accounts - save for its newfound place in the dirt.

“I don’t want to see your face around here ever again, do you hear me?!” the surly-sounding Elf hollered from inside the establishment whence the young man had been flung. It was a drab, seedy hovel, sandwiched between two other buildings that looked far more respectable. Certainly not the sort of place one would want to be caught doing business in.

As the unsavoury figure approached the door arch and came into the light of day, his victim fumbled around onto his back so as to smile up at him. His nose was now lightly bloodied and his hair thrown askew, the wax used to hold it in place now keeping it jutting out at absurd angles.

“Come on, Zelsar, my friend! It was just fun and games, you know? A little harmless mischief!” The plea was about as convincing as the grin – which was to say, not at all.

In Elven society, patience was often directly proportionate to one’s station. The higher echelons often dealt with insufferably-arrogant neighbours and associates, thus had learned to smile and suffer in silence – as was polite. Given Zelsar’s rough-hewn build and pugnacious attitude, it was clear to all assembled that trying to ply him with hollow pleasantries was not going work.

In reply to his excuses, Zelsar threw a small satchel at the other Elf - which hit him with considerable force, knocking him down a second time and spilling the contents out into the street for all to see. It revealed various implements and tools for cheating at bar games: extra cards, loaded die, enchanted darts.... If a method of dishonesty could be imagined, it had been contained in this knapsack. The cheat broadened his smile, but was cut off before he could continue making excuses for himself.

“My daughters ALSO told me about the unsavoury things you’ve been whispering in their ears. You’re lucky I didn’t separate you from any of your real valuables, Sehrti. Never darken this door again – or I just might do it!”

Sehrti looked around himself as the door to the gambling den slammed shut. There were still plenty of people enjoying his misfortune. He smiled impotently at those around him, for it was all he could do to stave off humiliation.

Fortunately, there was someone ready to rescue him from the ridicule.

A shape brushed through the crowd, taking care not to linger or impose against any one Elf for too long - a shape quite unlike any other present. While brutish in appearance, it moved with great efficiency. Clawed toes cautiously navigated their footfalls, never so much as scraping a sandal. A lengthy tail supporting a bony club at its end lifted itself high, so as to fit niftily through the gap in the crowd made by the creature’s shoulders. As bare, scaled skin of dull turquoise moved through the sea of pink and blue dyed hues, more and more eyes were drawn to this reptilian figure until he had breached the centre of the circle, and was presented plainly to all:

One of the lizard-folk.

He approached the prone Sehrti as curtly as he had arrived and stooped his entire body, half in a bow, half to offer a hand in aid. A lengthy neck craned alongside it - and turning his snout sideways, the lizard locked a lone amber eye upon him.

“You ssseem to be in need of some help, massster.”