The gnome barely bids Rannock farewell. Her head is too full of worries about what she should do now that Gulver Malidont's men and those that seek the bounty he almost certainly has on her head will have a fresh lead about a certain red-headed gnomish woman to follow shortly.
Ping stumbles and barely avoids falling down when Spiro asks her why she hides herself. Bad enough she's already told Mos, she hears her father's voice grouse. Now she is thinking about telling another the truth, and this one a too-tall half-breed! She shakes her head, trying to drive his voice out of her head. She can still hear him, though, listing off every reason he had for never trusting half-elves especially. She never understood why, but neither had she questioned his stance. In the year since his death, she'd been too focused on her own survival to really think much about how her father viewed anyone else, at least until now.
"I don't want to be found," she answers after a long moment of hesitation.
Spiro leans closer and look about as if making sure nobody else is listening.
"I don't understand. Who is it that you don't want to find you? I promise I won't tell anyone".
"T-trust isn't easy for me," she admits. Another long silence follows before she adds, "G-gulven. H-his name's Gulven Malidont--of Schollenwald."
She pulls the robes tighter around herself like she's trying to cover herself up.
Seeing Ping talking to Sprio, Mos is happy that she is opening up to others in the group.
After bidding Rannock fairwell the group press on along The Olde Trade Road toward Haranshire.
Laden with the loot from the goblin gang, the mule and horse clop and clank alongside the remaining party.
Jenneleth watches Ping speak with Spiro, but remains near Mos and Hûƞidark. As they walk, so poses a question to the pair;
"What of the messenger Good Masters? Did you find the poor man? What of his missive?"
.
At Jenneleth's question Hûnidark makes a quick chopping gesture towards his neck. ”Dead. We buried him. His name was Larkinth, I think. We’re going to deliver his message and satchel to Lord Parlfray in your Haranshire.”
As she walks Jenneleth bows her head in reverence at Hûnidark's words;
"Larkinth... I did not know him. It is good he was buried... May Onjura the Weeper mourn his passing."
She pauses patting the horse clopping beside her;
"...So it would seem you are to deliver this shipment to my master, then onward to Lord Parlfrays... His keep is not far from where Maester Tausthäuser resides in the village of Thurmaster. The Count is old, but fair. He will reward you for your collective bravery... Best avoid his Squire Marlen tho' - unlike his lord he is petty and would likely tithe you for your bounty."
The young apprentice excitedly points to a waymark stone on the road ahead;
"Look! Haranshire is less than a day away. We will pass first through my home... the town of Milborne, then after a rest we could press on to Thurmaster could we not? I sure you will find the fare of the Baron of Mutton to be... agreeable..."
Ping looks up at the waymark and feels a spasm of panic shoot through her. They were about to go into a human settlement, and she didn't have a disguise. Her hands wring the front of her robes as her mind goes blank.
"A-are we going to make it to an inn or something before nightfall," she asks nervously.
"T-trust isn't easy for me," she admits. Another long silence follows before she adds, "G-gulven. H-his name's Gulven Malidont--of Schollenwald."
She pulls the robes tighter around herself like she's trying to cover herself up.
"I see. I don't envy your position... but this Malidont of Schollenwald... has he far-reaching eyes? Is there anything that can be done to temper his anger"?
"I see. I don't envy your position... but this Malidont of Schollenwald... has he far-reaching eyes? Is there anything that can be done to temper his anger"?
"He has coin, and he thinks I owe him a debt," Ping says over the protestations of her father's voice in her mind. Her hands continue to wring the fabric of her oversized robe. "I-- I don't know if anything but paying him will deter him."
"you said he thinks you owe him a debt. Care to elaborate? If you do indeed owe him, we'll all help you pay off this so-called debt. If not, then I dare him to try and collect when you're with friends".
"I--" Ping starts to say before hunching her shoulders and looking down at her feet. "I've said too much."
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"I--" Ping starts to say before hunching her shoulders and looking down at her feet. "I've said too much."
"Hmmm No pressure". Spiro then lays a gentle hand on Ping's shoulder, and smiles. "You don't have to do this alone. I'm here to listen if you decide to share more".
Ping flinches as Spiro places a hand on her shoulder. She nods slowly, at least acknowledging what the archer said.
"Come...let us be off and back on track to finish the task which was appointed to us. Once complete then we can speculate and plan for further adventures!"
The halfling moves to the forefront of the group and starts leading the way forward.
As Ping and Spiro bond, Mos pushes the group forward figuratively and literally.
At the gnome's nervous question, Jenneleth nods reassuringly, pointing to a fork in the road ahead;
"We'll not make Haranshire by nightfall... and I for one would prefer the warmth of a fire and security of four walls with goblyn and the dead abroad. There is a humble roadside inn not far off the Olde Trade Road - The Pilgrim's Rest. I know of it from Pater Lafayer, the wandering priest of The Green Man - he frequents the place when travelling through our realm, and it sits under his protection. We will be safe there."
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"I-Is it crowded," Ping asks, unsure if the goblins and undead worry her more than the possibility of a mention of a red-haired gnomish woman getting back to Gulver Malidont. She wants, much to her own surprise and rather desperately, to believe that these people, Mos, Spiro, and Jenneleth, can be trusted, but she wonders if that is just wishful thinking on her part. What if her father is right, after all, and they only wish to use her for their own ends.
Words are cheaply spent. Isn't that was father would always say? If I can't trust words, then what can I trust? He's dead, and I have no idea where to go from here.
The little gnome pulls her hood low and quietly follows along as worry gnaws at her writhing innards.
Jenneleth smiles reassuringly at Ping;
"Most likely only busy when there are pilgrims passing through, and they tend not to be raucous types... Unless they follow Old Barleycorn or Master Hûnidark's brawling patron."
The apprentice guides the mule and beckons Mos to press onward;
"Lead on Master Smallbarrow, the inn is but a short distance off this road."
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Mos leads the party onward but keeps looking back at Ping with a worried frown. He finally moves over to talk to the gnome.
"You know we got your back. But if you would feel better why not get back into your old halfling costume? You can be my pappy to those who don't know. What do you say?"
Ping hesitates for a moment, looking up at the setting sun to judge the time they had left before nightfall. After a moment's thought she grabs Mos's hand and pulls him off towards the closest copse of trees.
"I need some help," is the only explanation she offers.
Once they are hidden from view, she drops her pack and faces the halfling with reddened cheeks.
"C-can you turn around until I tell you to," she asks, feeling embarrassed and foolish. If she's putting that stuffy Zeebo disguise back on, she wasn't going to do it while her her breasts were being squished flat by the cloth binding her chest and making it a little harder to breath. Once she had as much privacy as she is going to get, she quickly changes back into the top of her smallclothes and pulls her shirt back on.
"Alright, you can look," she tells Mos, noting, much to her chagrin, that she feels no less awkward or embarrassed about what she is about to ask Mos to do as she pulls out the belt and pillow she uses to fill out the robe. "I need you to buckle this at the small of my back," she adds as she turns around and holds the pillow to her stomach with the belt dangling to the sides of it as her hand holds the belt in place.
The next couple of minutes or so pass as she pulls out the beard and moustache she wears as Zeebo and puts it on along with the robe, which fits her more properly now. The final touch is the nose. An arcane chant later, it's no longer the cute button nose of a young gnomish woman, but the weathered, bulbous schnoz of the old halfling wizard. She pulls her hood back up to complete the transformation.
"We should get back to the others," she says, her voice sounding disturbingly odd coming from someone who looks like an old codger.
Less than ten minutes after Ping suddenly darts off the side of the road with Mos in tow, Zeebo and Mos come from the copse and rejoin the others.
"I trust you can all keep a secret," the elderly halfling says.
I'm betting my life you can, anyway, she thinks darkly as she tries to ignore her father's continued berating.
"Come now Grampy, let's hurry and get us a good seat in the taproom before all the warm spots are taken!"
The halfling keeps near to his elder as if to assist if the old codger needs any help.
"Yes, yes. It'll be good to get off my old, aching feet," Zeebo creaks. "Pardon Miss Jenneleth, what may an old halfling find to whet his whistle at this fine establishment we are heading to," the wizard asks the woman they are escorting.
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Spiro frowns when Zeebo reappears.
Nobody should have to hide who they are and live in fear like that. This will have to be resolved.
Spiro prefers the intimate company of friends, but a hot meal and a warm bed run a close second.
"I hope they have pickled Lamprey. It's my favorite. A heaping plate of that with Turnips, and a hot mug of buttered Rum would certainly lift my spirits after this day of dealing with death and fear".
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Jenneleth smiles, playing along with the well-meaning charade;
"Why it is good to see you again Auld Master Softfeather! As for what delights await us in The Pilgrim's Respite, let us collectively find out eh?"
She points to the warmly lit inn coming into view ahead.
As you collectively approach, you are met through the evening gloom by a young lad bearing a lantern and a stout watchman bearing a crossbow;
"Evening travellers, welcome to The Pilgrim's Respite. Please keep your weapons sheathed and purses open... Now can the lad take your beasts to the stables? They'll be tended to for the sum of 2 coppers per beast, per night. As for those of you with two legs who wish a bed better than hay, then please enter."
The burly man beckons you all into the inn entrance.
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"Ah, but not as good as it is to see you, Miss Jenneleth," Zeebo says with a gracious half-bow. As the inn comes into view, there's nary a twitch of his whiskers to give away the roiling ball of snakes that has become Ping's innards.
"And a good evening to you, my fine sir. Pray tell, how many rooms are available this eve," the aged mage asks. "I believe the good lady would like a room of her own and I am certain these fine fellows would not wish to be woken by an old dodderer like me in the middle of the night."
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The door to the inn opens, letting in both the night air and a traveler. A dwarf stands in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the firelight before he trudges a single step into the common area, pushing the door closed behind him. An expression is made on him both dour and deliberate, that gruff air that comes naturally to many a dwarf, but he seems more expectant or hopeful than annoyed or chagrined. His grey eyes scan the room, their slate color flecked with amber, in a general assessment of these new environs. He wears the dust of the road, the dark hair made darker in some places with sweat and grit lays plastered about his countenance. His beard is kept a mite shorter than others of his ilk, the dense whiskers coming down only to his collarbones. The left side of his face 'twixt jaw and eye is marred by a discolored patch of withered flesh where no hair grows.
His dress is of simple, sturdy gear; thick vestments of mossy green and stony grey. A hooded shoulder mantle lays atop a suit of ring mail, well-struck but soiled with road grime, itself over a quilted backing reinforced by boiled leather and a roughspun tunic, trousers, and heavy boots. Armed, a series of hammers and hand-axe line his belt and a pole arm sporting both a hammer and a spiked head is slung loosely on his back instead of in hand to appease the locals.
He makes for the nearest of folk who look to be in the employ or service of the inn and speaks low to them, his voice heavily accented and an unfamiliar weave of some Dwarven dialect and common . "Hail then, níw-fara. Seek I the āgend of this guest-house...elles-wise, the mann named Prestor. ge-cnáwan he..? ech.. know of him? To mine ears I am told a god-speaker. I've words to make with he."
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The large half-orc stops the lad with a raised, meaty hand. He throws the saddlebags from the messenger’s horse over one shoulder before unstrapping the large chest on the mule. Improbably, he hefts it onto his other shoulder with a grunt. ”Now you can take the animals. Thanks.”
With some effort, Hûnidark lugs his burden into the Inn and glances around… looking to see how many have hard eyes for a half-orc in their midst. It wouldn’t be the first time a tavern wouldn’t serve him or some fool with more balls than brains picked a fight.
The watchman nods slowly, with both he and the stable boy slightly in awe at the brawny half-orc lifting and shifting saddle bags and chest with ease;
"Rooms... Aye, see Innkeep. Kennek is name. Sure we got rooms enough, though the pilgrims have the common chamber fairly full."
As the party enter, you note the inn is relatively busy. Drovers and farm folk scatter throughout the place. At a large table a group of folk in simple robes eat sparingly overseen by this boisterous fellow
He, like several of the drovers, takes in your collective countenance as you enter, before hailing you with a booming laugh;
"Ho-ho! Welcome friends to The Pilgrim's Respite. I am Prestor Lafayer, the innkeep is Kennek, and those stoic souls are pilgrims of The Weeper ... I dearly hope your company will be more warming to our heart and mind than this miserable lot- Ha! Kennek! Bless'ed tintures of Old Barleycorn for these weary travellers!"
Spiro looks around a bit and sniffs the air for any delicious fare for his growing appetite.
"Hot meal and a warm bed are just what the Barber ordered"!
He then looks up as the door opens and is a bit surprised to see that a rustic looking Dwarf, and a hulking orc-blood with his hands full enter. He rushes to hold the door open for the encumbered traveler.
"Here! here! Come in".
As Prestor Lafayer makes his introduction, he smiles warmly as he notices Jenneleth;
"Ah-ha! Now there is a fair face I recognise... Jenneleth is it not? Apprentice to Tausthäuser. Who are your friends lass?"
At Spiro's mention of food and lodgings, the priest nods signalling to the innkeep;
"Of course Good Master - Kennek! Food and drink for these weary travellers! They wish to imbibe and feast... Let the old halfling sit by the fire."
The rosy cheeked priest beckons for Zeebo to sit nearer the glowing hearth , before pausing as a hardy looking dwarf enters shortly after the party;
"Lafayer you say Master Dwarv. He is me, that is I am he."
His words are ebullient, and slightly slurred - clearly the good priest is in his cups...
For their part the pilgrims merely watch on stoically, whilst others like the drovers watch with typical frontier curiosity...
"Thank you sirrah. It does get cold at night for these old bones," Zeebo says before taking the offered seat. He looks up as Ulfbrecht walks in and listens with mild interest as he and the priest talk.
It's all Ping can do to not squirm as she feels the eyes of everyone in the tavern on her and the others. Her only two hopes were that her disguise holds up and that the others would remember to use the right name.
Maybe I should have pretended to be a child, she thinks as she tries to keep an ear out for any gossip or whispers that she might use to glean any useful knowledge of what is going on and what other dangers she and her companions might face on the road on the morrow.
Ulfbrecht mulls for a moment, nodding to himself as he gives an idle tug of his beard. "At last," he mutters. "Fortune affords some mite of hyldu.." He regards the man, this Prestor Lafayer, eyeing his demeanor and foray into drunkenness. 'They breed their god-speakers in strange fashion on the surface.'
"God ge-mót to ye, then, Lafayer - good moot," the dwarf offers. "Speaking plain, seek I your council. Heard have I in the words of the field-ploughers and the fish-liners in my upfæreld from the under-lands that Lafayer is one who marks many tidings. That he hears much and is wise to many a þing in these..ech, realms. Lands. In hope am I that such words are in truth." He looks around, taking note of the gathering in the common room and the priest's proclivity to playing host. "If'n the time is god for words," he adds, hesitantly trying not to intrude too adamantly. "A þing - a matter of great worth to I."
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Some drovers begrudgingly make way for the old halfling, who plonks himself by the fire.
They pause moving to the nearby table as Hûƞidark places saddlebag and chest next to it, before easing himself into a seat, which creaks at the monk's bulk.
They shuffle to the bar, as the innkeep approaches Spiro;
"Greetings Lady and Gentlemen. Did I hear ye right? Lodgings as well as food and drink is required? We have shared rooms which hold up to four folk... those are 2 silver shilling a night per guest. Private chambers, are a gold crown a night and if ye wish to sleep in common room with our pilgrims, then its a single copper penny a night..."
He chuckles as dwarf and priest converse in the background;
"So what'll it be for food and drink? Pie an' ale? Cheese with bread? Perhaps a bowl of stew with a cup of wine... afore the good Prestor finishes our stock!"
Kennek chuckles with a wink.
Behind the hubbub of the party arriving Lafayer converses with the newcomer;
"God ge-mót to you also Master Dwarv... What is it you wish to know? Of course these things are best discuss'ed with one who introduces himself... and perhaps soothes the tongue with good mead as I tell my truths and those I have heard!"
The Prestor chuckles and bids the dwarf sit with him.
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Heads turn towards the door as it's flung open, revealing a handsome, rather bedraggled man wielding a dusty bottle in one hand and a much more dusty skull in the other.
After a theatrical moment standing still, his eyes searching the crowd, he lunges forth to come to a skidding, kneeling posture before the fair Jenneleth.
Prostating himself, keeping skull and bottle aloft, Eireachdail proclaims, "Dear Jenneleth, it does me much good to see you healthy and hale. When I endeavored to draw the filthy undead away from you , I could only hope my stalwart companions would return to you and deliver you safely to this fine, fine town!"
He then meets the eyes of this travelling companions, and give each a heart felt nod of thanks.
With a fluid motion he stands, flourishing his bottle and skull, as he turns in a dramatic circle, "Perhaps a song to commemorate my good deed!"
Striding to the bar, Eireachdail places the bottle there-on and instructs the barman, "A present from the undead! Draw a measure for all who wish, it's a fine vintage...local perhaps?".
As he returns to the centre of the room, skull in hand and strikes an equally dramatic pose with it perched upon his upraised palm, the barman takes a sniff of the bottle, and recognizing it's worth, slowly lowers it below the bar and draws forth a similar bottle, filled with a much more inexpensive vintage.
Back in the center of things, Eireachdail takes a moment to gather his thoughts, heedless of whether any of the patrons were actually paying attention.
Then in his fine tenor, he begins to sing:
Oh, gather ‘round and lend your ear,
A tale of courage you’ll now hear,
A minstrel bold with lute in hand,
Saved a maiden fair from a frightful band.
Three skeletons, with clattering bones,
Rattled and groaned with eerie tones,
They sought the maiden in the eve of night,
But the minstrel vowed to set it right.
Sing tra-la-la, and a hey-ho-hey,
The minstrel danced their fears away,
With wit and song, he turned the tide,
And saved the fair one by his side!
The maiden cried, “Oh, woe is me!
These bony fiends will not let me be!”
But the minstrel smiled and struck a chord,
With a jaunty tune, he faced the horde.
He played a jig so lively, so spry,
The skeletons paused, heads tilted awry,
Their bony feet began to tap,
Caught in the minstrel's merry trap.
Sing tra-la-la, and a hey-ho-hey,
The minstrel danced their fears away,
With wit and song, he turned the tide,
And saved the fair one by his side!
Around the grove, he led them far,
Dancing under the evening star,
Through hill and hollow, wood and glen,
The skeletons followed, again and again.
The maiden watched with heart anew,
As the minstrel vanished from her view,
Till at last, the fiends were led astray,
And the brave bard returned to save the day.
Sing tra-la-la, and a hey-ho-hey,
The minstrel danced their fears away,
With wit and song, he turned the tide,
And saved the fair one by his side!
So raise a cheer and lift your glass,
To the minstrel brave with heart and sass,
He faced the bones with fearless grace,
And left the world a brighter place!
With a flourish, he ends the song flinging the skull into the roaring fireplace, shattering it into a hundred pieces, sending a shower of sparks up into the air as a dramatic punctuation to his song!
Ping manages to keep from wincing at the price of a private room. It makes sense, but she can't help but wish that the cost of a private room was a little cheaper.
"Milady," Zeebo says in his creaky voice, "I would hate to impose on your hospitality, but I do not think we should overly tax our purses. If it is not too uncouth, might we share a room? I'm far too old to lust for anything besides a good cup of tea and a long nap."
Ping at hopes that will deflect any aspersions on Jenneleth's honor as Zeebo waits for her answer. Whatever that may be, he dodders over to the space cleared by the fire with a grateful word of thanks to the drovers. He tells the innkeeper he'd like a bowl of stew and a cup of ale along with some bread when asked about what he wants for dinner.
Bring the old man and me some stew and a pint of ale, if you please.
The halfling hands over a coins for the food and nods in agreement to Zeebo's request to stay with Jenneleth.
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Ulfbrecht nods to Lafayer and sits, putting his arms atop the table. He shifts his gear around and maneuvers the haft of his pole arm to accommodate being seated. "Ech...of course. Call-ed am I Ulfbrecht - Thragimthal. forþ-cymen I from Glorigirn, a deep-tún afar. A hunt has taken mine travel to these sky-lands." He looks around for a moment, to once more register his surroundings. "A hunt for heolstrig folk..dark folk of dark deed. Shackle-rattlers, slave-takers, may even cult-gatherers. Seek I any knowledge ye fæstes have on such as them. Heard have I ye may." He leans forward, his tone stoic but a captive fierceness sleeps behind his eyes. "From mine blood have they for-stolen."
He studies the man before him, hopeful that the rumors that led him here would hold true, and that this priest of libation would not disappoint him. If so, there were other travelers in the guest-house, and perhaps one of them would have a lead.
Spiro takes in everything the rustic dwarf has to say then quizzically turns to him.
"Could you perhaps repeat what you just said in common"?
Zeebo nods gratefully to Mos as he procures some food and drink for the both of them. Listening to the newly arrived dwarf's tale, the halfling wizard furrows his bushy brows.
"Mos, have you heard tale of any slavers about," he asks the much younger halfling as Ping tries to recall any rumors she may have heard.
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As Eireachdail makes his grand (re)entrance, the table of solemn pilgrims raise ne'er an eyebrow at the sudden injection of song and saga.
Several of the locals however, nod in approval and tap their clogged feet to the bard's performance.
Jenneleth, for her part, smiles with relief;
"Master Eireachdail! I... We thought you lost to the risen dead. I am glad to see you safe and well, and bearing trophies!"
She pauses as Zeebo poses a question to her on cohabiting a room;
"Why of course Good Master Softfeather. I trust you implicitly and though I am betrothed, know my reputation will remain untarnished."
The stout innkeep tips the nod to Mos as he orders food and drink;
"Of course. Our finest ale and nourishing stew for the Little Masters..."
He pauses awkwardly, before continuing somewhat sheepishly;
"Beggin' your pardons Little Masters... We 'ad a couple of your kin come thru these parts few months back. Departed without payin'... an' 'elped themselves to the coin purses of a few of my regulars to boot! Not tarnishin' ye both with the same brush, but would it be remiss to see the shine o' your coin afore I serve?"
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Lafayer leans against his staff and takes a quaff on his mead cup with a chuckle;
"Our Dwarv friend here speken... speaks a hybrid of his tongue and the Common one."
As he allows Ulfbrecht's words to sink in, his brow furrows;
"Slavers ye say? Dark folk and darker deeds... Sit Ulf, sit. Let me take counsel with you all, for I have questions as much as answers... on the nature of this party o' folk, on the song and skull wielded by our bardic friend here and what I have hear through the realm."
He nods toward innkeep;
"Kennek! Let not the ill-deeds of those pair of little criminals taint the company we now keep. Do either look like deserters and ne'er-do-wells? I think not... Know these folk are under mine own benediction until they give me cause not to do so. Please grant them fare and lodgings as they need and you can afford."
The rosy faced priest turns back toward your assembled company;
"Now. Let us share both tincture and tales..."
While slavery was outlawed in Schöllenwald, like all civilised places in the realms, it was an illicit pie that the brutish Gulven Malidont would dip his grubby fingers into on occasion.
Whenever he did his contact was a human female named Prentyss, whom your father had pointed out as someone to avoid. You remember seeing her fleetingly at a meeting of the lowlife of Schöllenwald in a smoky dockside tavern a few years back. You recall she was petite and well-heeled, with her youthful appearance marred by a broken nose. Nothing else, however comes to mind.
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A thick eyebrow rises above the half-orc’s dour face – listening to all the loose talk and the minstrel’s antics. His only comments are in response to the innkeep’s question. ”Stew and black tea, if you have it. Thanks.”
Zeebo's whiskers twitch in a smile at the innkeeper.
"Of course not, my good sir. I have coin enough to pay for our rooms and board," the elderly halfling says with a wheezy chuckle. He pulls out a gold crown and twelve silver shillings. "Will this cover the two rooms, supper, and breakfast on the morn for the Good Lady Jenneleth, my taller companions," he gestures to Hunidark, Spiro, and the returned minstrel, Eireachdail, who seems to have already begun a song, "my fellow halfling, and myself?" Thinking for a moment, he asks, "and how much for a fine bottle of drink for the good lady and my companions to share?"
Though it pains Ping to part with the coin, she hopes that she might at least stay in their good graces. Besides, it helps sell the image of the gregarious elder halfling.
Ping manages to keep from shuddering as she recalls her father describing Gulver's occasional forays into slaving. Malver Ibbleting always sneered when talking about the unfortunates that found themselves under the lash, but Ping never could be that callous, especially not after the night she snuck off on her own and followed Prentyss after that meeting once her father had drunk himself into a stupor. One of the reasons she vowed never to let Gulver catch her is because she never wants to be on the receiving end of one of Prentyss' "training" sessions.
Zeebo motions for Mos to lean in closer while keeping an eye and an ear out for any eavesdroppers.
"Does the name Prentyss ring any bells," Ping's voice asks in a whisper that's barely louder to Mos's ears than the crackling of the fire, but there is a weight of leaden dread in her tone that belies the elderly halfling's apparent calm. Ping knows at least a little, that's for certain.
Mos leans over and hears the 'elder halfling' ask about the person with a great amount of fear in 'his' voice/