"My master," he spits the word, as is traditional. "Could stand to be a little anxious. There are some people out there who would really benefit from doubting themselves more often."

Present company excluded, of course.

--Which is a funny thing, actually. Five minutes shouldn't make any difference at all - and they certainly haven't changed the circumstances of his visit or what comes after -, but it's planted a strange itch between his wings that feels rather like... Well, he can't say what just yet, but he's certain it will come to him in the next few hours. Even that slim possibility of something is more than he'd been nurturing out on that wet rooftop a moment ago.

"But since you insist, at least one of us is doing this in style." With a flap of its wings, the bird comes away from the tabletop. In another instant it is no longer a bird at all.

He changes in the blink of an eye, landing with heavy lion paws on protesting floorboards. The sphinx with its red-gold fur and purple-black feathers nearly fill the small room, the crest of its burnished battle helmet - the likes of which has not seen since the Battle of Qadesh - scoring a deep groove in the ceiling's plaster. Its face behind the helm is that of a dark and beautiful woman with eyes like burning embers, her throat collared by fire tipped down.

If they have to do this, they might as well leave an impression before she goes.

"Well don't just stand there," he says. "Hop on."