He hears them before he sees them, distracting him from his investigations and his ruminating. Antares and Atair had found themselves - even if the latter had not agreed to the way things were yet, he had seen Atair and how he looked at the black Daughter of the People that had come alongside she with Sekhmet’s crown. He envied them, thought on stories of such impossible romances as the two that had consumed two of three of his brothers. One ran from duty and fate only to fall himself in love with his intended betrothed. One found impossible hope in the form of the very thing he most feared - a woman he would break if he so much as embraced her, or so he thought. Antares had mentioned her companion to him, but Rigel was no warrior for Sakhmet to see as anything more than an irritation.

He dreamed of a romance of words, of walking beside the lady of his favor, watched by her guardian as they were chaperoned. Speaking across the veil of a waterfall while their chosen companions washed them and groomed them before their betrothal - signifying their intent to be one soul and yet being separated by the thin veil of propriety. Murmuring sweet things to her through secret messengers, or watching her dance at a festival -- though he knew this thing above all others was least possible. The festivals were not held here, nor were there chaperones, nor were there waterfalls in which to bathe apart and together.

His steps break him into the midst of their conversation. “As-salamu alaykum!” He greets them in the tongue of the girl he noted - although he had enough knowledge of the conformation of the guardian beside her to understand this was not the proper greeting to him. “Welcome, friend. I am Rigel of the Southeastern Dunes. Do you search for Maslakhat? Or perhaps your young lady was in search of the Sons of Mira?”

He is almost blue with the cosmos painted from leg to belly to neck to face, only the further spaces from those markings naming him Black indeed. He is the beauty of his brothers, though he was not so high marked as Antares, rare marked as Atair, or vibrantly colored as Aldebaran. His kind nature, for all his cunning and intelligence, is what shon through. His face is the face of an honest sort, and he can only hope to prove on that sentiment with time. “If you first desire rest, my brothers and I should be honored to have you as our guest.”