Deep in the woods, past the clearing with the toppled stones, there lies a picturesque hut, built into the side of a wooded hill. It is not always the same hill, however, as some of the hut’s doors come and go, or lead to long subterranean hallways that seem to twist like living things before terminating in a quaint but stylish drawing room. Inside this hut there lives a sphinx, who is also a wizard and a merchant of sorcerous wares. None of the local villagers ever speak to him, although some say they overheard some foreign alchemists on their way through refer to him as “Sorsero,” whatever that means.
Those who know him — those who do business with him — are not always eager to introduce new clients. What if the sphinx is too busy the next time they need something from him? “I’m too busy for you now” is the last finder’s fee anyone wants to receive. And yet he seems to have no shortage of customers. His creations make their way to every corner of the globe and have been lost on any number of outer planes. No one knows how long he has lived, but he has sent his associates on quests to find things that are hundreds or even thousands of years old. He could be ancient, yes, or he could be merely hurling his work backwards in time. Who knows what secrets wizards hold?