The air hung with the rich scents of a myraid of spices; za'atar from Merian, Keribas, cardamom from Amonuum, Haide, majoram from Survani's Oasis, Fallien. Bright colours of livid saffron, scarlet, lemon and golden yellow and brilliant green filled the open caskets lining the stalls. Other products, such as the carefully made fine china spice bowls, lined shelves, whilst hand-woven cloths and tapestries hung from the ceiling. A curved continuous archway made the bright, lively place a home for the exotic - all of the essences from across the hot, humid centres of the world contained into one singular market.

Slowly she breathed in, a smile coming to her lips. So luxurious, so unique. A world which she hardly experienced, which she hardly knew. For the first time her hoof had stepped upon sand, and carved a mark into the Fallien soil, strode through the sandstone streets of Irrakam and experienced the flavours of the fiery foreign.

"Hi," she said, rather embarressed to a man with tanned skin - the natural tone of this area - who was staring at her.

Humans here, apparently, had not seen the few fauns that existed in the world. Which was entirely understandable, seeing as they rarely ventured from their home of Paradisia in the forests of the Jagged Mountains. Philomel was a great exception, and though she was quiet about her exact heritage she did not shy away from being proud of her ancestry.

"Your fabric there," she gestured to a soft purple silk that was printed with small images of desert deer and harpies, "How much would it be?"

His eyes blinked wide with surprise as he realised that she spoke the common tongue of Althanas. His own voice was in a gorgeous stacatto tone of his land, "Uh ... So you ... Right." Feeling somewhat annoyed by the man's reaction the faun began to frown before he continued. "Where you come from? I can give you good price based on this. Yes?"

Blinking at his forgetting of definite articles, Philomel was taken aback slightly but knew that the man was trying. So she kept her patience and answered in a polite, though frank, tone. "Corone. I have coins from there, but I have things to trade, as I know-"

"20 Corone Crowns," the man beamed. He had dimples on his chin that prodded in like tiny sinkholes.

"But I have ..." she began to say, reaching for her bag where she had stored her items.

For in Fallien she knew that they traded in stock more than anything. Currency of other realms and cities was accepted, but they preferred their ways. Thus she had brought with her all the herbs and fabrics and artistry of her world that they might find interesting. Basil from Underwood, holy fleece from Akashima and scrolls from the Am'aleh religion in the Tylmerande barony were all in her possession.

The man, however, waved a cinnamon coloured hand at her nearly sickly pale face. Which matched her white cotton travelling shirt, her ivory over skirt, the blades of her five mythril daggers that were stuck into her belt. Immediately her face fell and she couldn't help but feel slightly put off by him. In all honesty she had been wanting to buy the silk for her mother, who was into brighter things than her, and certainly needed cheering up after her recent ordeals. Rape, a bit of murder, politics. Gods, if anything please not let it be politics.

"20 Crowns and no less."

"I am not interested," suddenly she said, twisting around on hoof. "I am sorry, but its fine." She had to do it, had to pull out. She could not deal with this man, and before she ending up swearing in his face she wanted to be away, to offer her wares to another trader.

The man tried to call after her, but the faun was hurrying now, clutching onto her bag. Her knuckles were white, her face was hard, but she did not want to make his day worse. So she left, and exited. Keeping her eyes wide for another opportunity.