Minthara turns. She holds in one gauntleted hand a record, free of its sleeve. Beside her, half-obscured by a rack of vinyls, the treasure chest rests.

"So I am," she replies, appraising the elf before her. A high elf. Not that the distinction between surface elves matters. One is more likely to ambush you in the woods, the other more likely to ambush you in a city. This one, as is his nature, is in a city.

She has no idea what significance her near-white hair and red eyes might have on his world. It has not yet occurred to her that he might come from another world. Elves are of Faerûn.

"Have you any other astute observations for me?"