"Bholbhenah'zi Nae'te, xoansa satihr!" the man by the door chirped in the singsong tones of a formalized and oft-repeated greeting. His garb, a black tunic with a wide embroidered apron extending barely to the upper thigh, picked him out immediately as one of the inhabitants of this place.

He opened his arms and smiled with his teeth. "Welcome to the Shrine of the Waxing Moon, honored traveler," he repeated in Eorzean, just in case. The person who had just emerged through the arbor at the entry to the sacred grounds certainly looked like a fellow Keeper of the Moon: he was dressed like a hunter from one of the western tribes and the ears and tail were nearly dispositive. Still, one shouldn't assume, in a city this big, that any given person would talk any given way. It was a slower afternoon today, though, so Rhaefi'a padded toward the new guest with the interest born of boredom as well as duty.

"Taasal'sae varrai'zae nekhuc siithi'zae qoulrethio poro?" It took him a moment to remember all the relevant words in the local tongue. "Would you tarry in the hot-springs or light a votive?"