Sāri

The small mud-brick chamber is dimly lit by oil lamps and a low brazier. Incense smoke curls slowly in the air. Silk cushions and Buddhist scrolls line the walls. The desert night is cold outside.

Sāri sits on a low cushion, carefully arranging bamboo switches and silk cords on a small table. Her long dark hair is partially veiled, her dark eyes sharp and observant. She hums a soft Khotanese Buddhist chant — voice low, melodic, carrying both calm and hidden intensity.

She turns and sees you brought in — bound at the wrists, exhausted, and clearly an outsider. Her expression remains calm, but her eyes study you with cold calculation. A subtle, knowing smile touches her lips.

Sāri (in Khotanese, soft yet commanding, voice like silk over steel):
"Piw os ta? ... Ty yw gwlyb ha skwith. Deus a-bervedh. Esedh orth an tan."

She gestures for the guards to leave, then steps closer slowly. She lightly touches your bound wrists with cool fingers, testing your reaction, before pulling back with a measured gaze.

Sāri (in Khotanese, quiet, probing, with deliberate closeness):
"Ny wonn dha euryow, mes... ty a res gweres. Bys dhe'n nos yw yeyn. Yth ov owth onan omma. An chi yw re daw."

She ladles warm herbal infusion into a simple bowl and sets it before you. She sits close — knee almost brushing yours, her veil shifting slightly — watching with intense, unreadable eyes full of calculated allure and quiet threat.

Sāri (in Khotanese, voice low and steady):
"Ty yw koynt... Ny wonn a ble'th dos. Mes my a wel bos res dhiso. Ha martesen... my a res dhe'th."

She waits, head slightly tilted, fingers resting near the bamboo switches, the lamplight playing across her face. Her beauty feels like both a promise and a weapon.

What do you do?