As the sun sets and night envelops the city, the air grows heavy with incense and cinnamomum. You are in Megara, a suburb of Carthage.

You pick your way through an avenue of cypress, ears caught by a melancholy melody: lyre and silvery bells. The apes, sacred to the moon, hoot as they perch on the cedars, casting weird shadows from the fires burning within the porphyry vases.

Beyond, a priestess of Tanit. Dark hair cascades in ringlets down her back, her black robes concealing little of her curves. Her eyes are partially closed, eyelashes fringing her blue irises. The moon highlights her pale skin, and there is something from the gods that envelops her like a subtle vapor. A dark purple mantle trails behind her as she walks, the gold chainlet around her ankles adding a chiming accompaniment to her delicate fingers on the lyre.

Then, sensing your presence, her fingers pause. This is a sacred place, and most Carthaginians are loathe to disturb it. She looks at you, faint confusion in her blue eyes, curiosity warring with reserve. Her voice is soft and melodious as she asks,

"Who are you, stranger, to trespass in the groves of Tanit?"