Marun

Unlike the other houses and shops you've passed by, no voice welcomes you into the cobweb covered building. Instead, the beaten up wooden door creaks open slowly, seemingly on its own. As you tiptoe into the room, you can see that was the case, for the masked imperial has his gloved talons folded on the equally dented wooden table in front of him.

"Marun?" you ask, vaguely remembering some of the other dragons mentioning the potion maker. He gives a humble wave of his talons, and you can't tell whether or not his expression is one of irritation or actual contentment. Not that the half-mask and dark cloak resting over most of his face helps at all.

His room is neat. Rows of bottles filled with bubbling liquids of every color in the rainbow line the shelves on the back wall, but the lighting in the room is poor, forcing you to squint to make out the details.

A loud squawk startles you, until Marun reveals the source of the noise, a lime green cockatrice with feathers for days. It gives another squawking noise, and you're glad you don't have one as a familiar.

"Morgante, hush, we have guests," he murmurs to the bird-like creature, who tilts its head and settles itself on his lap like a chicken, shuffling around a few times to get the ideal resting position.