The paladin quietly speaks to everyone in his search party, expressing his desire to still keep watches throughout the night.
"The offer for shelter is nice, but we still don't know much about our guests. Better safe than sorry."
… he snorts, seemingly amused. "Dwarves talk less than humans. Pick talks less than dwarves."
Samara considers the answer and nods. There are a few more horse clops before she speaks, ”Is more, I think. Speak small not same at listen lots. You listen. Not deafed by… mudtarib,” she gestures at seemingly everything, ”…’unquiet’ head. World things. Blah blah blah.”
"I sleep with horses," he tells Hirus. "No need bed."
”Me, too! Thank to Evollana. No insult to give she coins?” She glances at Pick, unsure if her presence will be seen as more of an intrusion than a safety measure. ”I be quiet. No worry.”
Under the glow of Selûne, Calen inhales the crisp night air, the scent of earth and faint smoke mixing with the comforting spice of his cigar. Leaning against a stable post, he surveys the quiet town, every instinct attuned to the stillness.
Those villagers inside, warm and quick with hospitality, maybe they are just small-town folk trying to keep life simple. But he knows how a pleasant mask can hide intentions as dark as a moonless night. Waiting until things settle, he’ll slip quietly from the stable to make a slow circuit of the village, feeling out any shadows or movements that might speak louder than all the warm smiles in the world.
… he snorts, seemingly amused. "Dwarves talk less than humans. Pick talks less than dwarves."Samara considers the answer and nods. There are a few more horse clops before she speaks, ”Is more, I think. Speak small not same at listen lots. You listen. Not deafed by… mudtarib,” she gestures at seemingly everything, ”…’unquiet’ head. World things. Blah blah blah.”
... She glances at Pick, unsure if her presence will be seen as more of an intrusion than a safety measure. ”I be quiet. No worry.”
Pick grunts.
(A single sound, that somehow conveys light skepticism of this promise, but no real objection.)
He does not know why he is apparently coaxing curiosity about his nature from two people today. Well, it does not matter. He absently strokes the flank of the horse he has been riding as he waits for the coin-negotiations with Evollana to conclude.
"Not at all," Hirus confirms to Samara. "She might not accept them but I'm sure she'll appreciate the offer."
* * * * *
Calen's moonlit tour of the village doesn't show up much. People sporadically come and go from the tavern over the course of the evening. Otherwise the only activity is a pair of boys, probably in their later teenage years, who are out walking and talking quietly. The hour might be late but this is hardly strange behaviour for youths looking for privacy away from prying adult ears. Lights at most of the buildings have already gone out slowly go out as the farming community prepares for another long day in the fields. There is, however, no shortage of activity from the local nocturnal fauna so Lunaris is able to hunt and feast with ease.
Whether you spent the night bedding down on the straw in the stables or on a mattress on the floor in the Hope Springs, it's a quiet night. Only after Calen has called it a night does Selune gradually slip behind the increasing cloud cover and the morning dawns grey and drizzly.
Cassi is still abed but Garrick is up early enough and knocks on the door to offer thick porridge with honey and sausages slapped between slabs of bread. Once you've breakfasted and prepared yourselves, the road beckons. Most of the residents of Dagger Springs are already up and in the fields, as you would expect of those who work the land.
Hirus, too, is at his forge and preparing to start the day. He waves, carefully checks his workstation, and heads over. "Good morning. I hope you slept alright. May Gond guide you on your journey," he invokes the god of craft. "If you are able to send word if you find Glanwyn we'd be glad to hear of it, though I'm sure news will make its way here in time anyway. Otherwise you're always welcome in Dagger Springs."
After his sunrise worship, Joreld partakes of the offered breakfast. The paladin thanks Garrick for his hard work. The lathanderite discreetly puts 3 gold coins under his plate for the soon-to-be-father to find.
True to her word, Samara said very little the night before. Silence seemed a welcome friend in the barn. In the morning, she readied the horses for the day’s journey, whispering quietly to them in Midani. Her greeting to Pick was a bob of her head.
Riding out of the village, you find yourselves north of the river. Ahead of you a trail hugs close to the Desertmouth Mountains on your left, otherwise the rolling hills of Daggerdale are wide open, as least as far as you can see in the slightly dismal weather.
“Lot of ground to cover,” he mutters, glancing at the others. “If Glanwyn’s gone this way, best we keep to high points, where we can see a fair bit ‘round us. Can’t say I trust these hills not to keep their own secrets.”
Calen looks out over the hills, a glint of unease shadowing his gaze. "Could be Gwathburg explains his disappearance. Not hard to reckon the undead rulers might've taken a special interest in a woodsman like Glanwyn passin' by their borders. Reckon that's our biggest lead... though it ain't exactly a welcome one."
He grips the reins a bit tighter, brow furrowing."Best keep clear of that place 'less we've no choice, but we should stay alert to any signs of his passin' this way. Lotta ground to cover."
"Garrick mentioned that Gladwyn was heading north to the Goldfields, to a village named Stonehome", Joreld reminded everyone.
"Does Stonehome show up on the map?"
"Goldfields is village. Stonehome is west Goldfields near mountains. Glanwyn to talk with Cariamma mebbe one day after here. Before he walk Goldfields. Mebbe start look here - in hills?"
In Evollana's barn, Pick has the silence Samara promised-- not exactly silent, for the horses and other livestock make noises through the night, but silence from humanoid speech at least. Pick uses another piece of the parchment that she gave traded to him to write another slow message to Cariamma.
GLANWYN REACHED DAGGER SPRINGS WENT NORTH. WE FOLLOW TOMORROW.
As the night before, the dwarf then whistles softly, a handful of dried berries from his pack serving as the reward for the task he would ask of one of the surrounding birds.
Once the message has been claimed, the dwarf goes back inside the barn and settles into a half-sitting position amidst the hay, his back to one of the barn walls. Eventually, the animals quiet down and night's deep quiet settles over the area.
This is a good town, he supposes. Like Anathar's Dell, not too big, and the people take care of each other. It is still too many people for his tastes, of course, just like the Dell is. But better than Dagger Falls.
The veiled woman sleeps not too far away. He tries to envision where it is she is from, that her style of dress is useful. In the forests that he has spent so much time in, the flowing cloth would simply get caught on every branch or bush. Hnnh.
He is still pondering this when he eventually drifts off himself. Hopefully Samara can manage to sleep through his somewhat impressive snoring, but she presumably knew what she was getting herself into after the previous night.
***
In the morning, Pick checks the horses again for any signs of developing injuries, rocks in their hooves, or anything of the sort, then saddles them, quite possibly helped by Samara in the process.
"His" horse is a dappled gray mare. He has not given her a name. To him it would feel presumptuous. But she does get an extra handful of fodder from him, anyway.
Samara is able to see that in the day's preparations, Pick produces what looks very much like the shinbone of a humanoid creature, with runes carved into the old bone. He mutters a chant under his breath as he runs the bone over his fingernails almost as if it were a giant nail file. Then he examines his fingertips and gives a satisfied grunt to himself.
***
With breakfast courtesy the villagers' hospitality, it is a short matter before they are on the road again. Pick listens to the discussion, his eyes scanning the dirt of the trail.
The dwarf's head finally lifts at this point in the discussion. Calen's words earn a nod from him-- especially the bit about sticking to high ground for vantage points.
"Yes. Look from there. Glan maybe did same."
When they reach a decently tall hill, Pick gestures for a momentary stop to stretch his legs... and to begin another low mutttering, his head tilted back to squint up at the blue sky overhead as if expecting some information to appear.
Pick produces what looks very much like the shinbone of a humanoid creature, with runes carved into the old bone. He mutters a chant under his breath as he runs the bone over his fingernails almost as if it were a giant nail file. Then he examines his fingertips and gives a satisfied grunt to himself.
Bedine camps are small and tight. ‘Privacy’ is often no thicker than a thin layer of tent fabric or neighbors choosing to willfully not see private moments made regrettably public. Therefore, it is with some embarrassment that Samara openly watches Pick, so curious is she about what he is doing and using.
She is even so bold as to weave a spell to determine if there is some magical component to this nail ritual.
She is even so bold as to weave a spell to determine if there is some magical component to this nail ritual...
The dwarf's chanting seems to be a spell to sharpen his already formidable nails. The bone itself sparks with magic to Samara's senses, and she is able to put together that it functions as a lesser rod of extend, prolonging the spell he is performing upon himself.
Ialia rises to find Basil sleeping from the ceiling. The mattress was more comfortable than the ground, but only just, although it didn't matter much; the long days on the road coupled with the three, or was it four, pints of ale she drank on an empty stomach knocked her out and she slept hard.
Morning was a time of rituals. First she washed herself as best as facilities allowed. Then she combed her hair. The usual count was two hundred, if time permitted, but today she would have to do with half that. Then she loosely braided and knotted it about her shoulders, dressed, and communed with Basil on her daily spells. Once all of that was completed she took breakfast and prepared her things, carefully wrapping her few possessions and dividing them between her backpack and bag of holding.
Having retrieved Fennelseed from the stable and paying a gold piece for the care, she greets the others at the road. She observes the conversation about the path and next destination with moderate interest - her input was not needed on such matters, plainly.
Calen and Pick agree that it makes sense to take the overland route in order to make use of the terrain where possible. Given the trail north lies in the shadow of the mountains to the west, you’re not going to get much of a view across the dale without climbing into the foothills so this seems a sensible idea. Besides, it’s hardly a well-used road so the difference to the eye between the waytrail and the cross-country route you’re taking might not always be clear to an unseasoned tracker anyway. Fortunately for you, you’re well prepared for such things.
A persistent drizzle hangs in the air, the kind of light mist that gives everything a surface coat of water but doesn’t really penetrate your travel cloaks and other road attire. The horses are able to maintain a reasonable pace as the land rises and falls ahead of you. The farms of Dagger Springs begin to disappear behind you and the dale opens up as a place of hills, copses of trees and other greenery. It might be a wild place, but it’s far from inhospitable.
Making for a tall hill that Calen points out as potentially a decent vantage point, once you’ve crested it, Pick stops to work a spell. Sending a roving eye skyward, he is able to cast around and survey the terrain. Looking for any signs of movement, campfires or anything out of the ordinary, the dwarf is able to make out a couple of larger patches of woodland that look to be on your route. He is also able to pick out what appears to be the remnants of a fire a distance off in a rough northeast direction. It’s on the side of a hill that would give shelter from any winds whipping off the Desertmouth Mountains as well as providing a balance between a viewpoint and not signalling its location to all around. Pick can also see off in the distance various humanoid figures, both in groups and solo, but not with the clarity to tell who or what they are or which direction they are travelling. It's not always easy to gauge distance like this but one of them, at least, looks to be not so far away from the potential campsite.
After staring into the drizzling sky overhead for a few moments, Pick grunts, lowers his face, and wipes a little rainwater away with the back of his arm.
A stick serves as a stylus for drawing a quick and dirty (har har) map on the ground to indicate the tree patches, the major hills ahead, and the possible campsite.
"Trees here." Stick-poke at his trees, and it's probably good he explained what his squiggly lines are meant to represent, for he is not an artist. "Here... maybe someone camped. Good place for it. There was fire... probably. Also.... some people... here... and here... and.... single people... here."
He ponders his crude dirt map, then looks up at the others from his position crouched on the ground. "Go look at camp?"
Samara looks at the scrawled drawing. ”Yes, camp. Mebbe see proofs of Glan, stalkers, or troubles.”
"As you say, Pick", Joreld agrees.
Calen leans forward in his saddle, letting the drizzle bead off his hat as he studies the rough map Pick scrawled in the dirt. His keen eyes trace the squiggles, and he nods slowly.
"Well now, reckon that camp's the best lead we've got so far," he drawls, "Fire on the side of a hill, bit o' shelter, and close enough to keep watch without flashin' it all 'round—sounds like someone who knows what they're doin'."
Calen shifts in the saddle, his gaze back on the others. "Reckon we head for that camp. Might give us a clue or two ‘bout what happened to Glanwyn. But we approach careful-like. No tellin' what—or who—we’ll find waitin’ for us."
Ialia opens the saddle bag and scoops Basil out of it.
"Go and see what's happening around the area of the camp and warn me as we get closer if it's an ambush."
Basil hisses something unpleasant but reluctantly stretches its wings and takes to the sky.
With the campfire agreed as your destination, Basil flies off ahead of you, albeit muttering about something to Ialia about this being time for sleeping. It turns out that the spot is a good couple of miles away from your vantage point but neither the terrain nor the weather add much in the way of colour on the way. Ialia's familiar meets you on his return when you're about three-quarters of the way there, reporting - slightly waspishly - that there is the remains of a fire, tracks leading away from it and no sign of anyone in the vicinity or obvious hiding places, as you will no doubt see shortly.
Reassured, you press on the final distance and reach the fire. Judging from the ring of stones around it you could probably assume the builder has some experience of wild camping, or at least of building fires. The flames were properly put out as well, with the ashes now cold in the morning rain. There's no sign of any other materials in the area so presumably the traveller took everything with them - or perhaps burnt anything unwanted. The footprints leading away from the fire are clear enough so it doesn't appear like any attempt was made to cover their tracks.
Joreld looks to the tracks leading away from the campsite, but to his courtly eyes, the tracks seem to disappear into the wilderness.
"Calen. Pick. Should we use this site as our campfire? Or should we make our own elsewhere?"
Once the prints are pointed out to her, the sorceress looks to the druid. "Pick, boot of Glan. Size same-same?"
Calen crouches by the ring of stones, running his fingers through the cold ashes and giving them a faint sniff before dusting his hand clean on his breeches. His sharp eyes sweep the surrounding area, lingering on the footprints leading away. He tilts his head, the drizzle catching on the brim of his hat, and rubs his jaw thoughtfully.
"Whoever was here knew what they were doin'," he drawls. "Fire’s clean out, ashes cold, and not a scrap left behind. Tracks are plain, so they weren’t tryin’ to vanish on us neither. That tells me they were either confident—or in a hurry."
Once the prints are pointed out to her, the sorceress looks to the druid. "Pick, boot of Glan. Size same-same?"
At Samara's question, Pick duly produces the boot of their missing ranger and compares it. It's nothing conclusive, but it's of a size that it's reasonable to conclude the prints could be Glanwyn's.
Seeking more confirmation, Pick focuses for a moment and then spends a minute quite literally nosing around the old campsite. He knows that the chances that any scent lingers this long after Glan's (hopeful) presence are slim, but the attempt costs him little.
After a minute of smelling at the extinguished fire, the flat area where a person might have laid, and the footprints, Pick stands up and shrugs. "Footprints best lead. We follow? Much daylight still."
Ialia gave Basil a good scratch for its effort and hustled it back into the warm darkness of the saddle bag. "Very good."
When they arrive at the camp site she hops off Fennelseed and observes Calen and Pick. She particularly appreciates their use of evidence to reach logical conclusions, which leads her to trust their judgment.
It occurs to her that while a fire may be extinguished, the buried coals will retain heat for many hours afterward, even in a rain. She takes a stick and stirs up the remains of the fire, sweeping aside the top layers of ash to get to the coal bed beneath. She tests the bed for any residual warmth.
Pick gets down and begins sniffing at what he can find, looking for a trace of Glanwyn’s scent. He doesn’t pick up anything the same as that of the elf’s clothing, but the smell of last night’s occupant lingers. The dwarf isn’t certain but he thinks they were probably a human male. The footprints and stride also length align with this supposition. Exploring the remains of the fire, his nostrils are filled with the rich resonant smell of roasted bird, earthy potatoes, and sweet wild garlic.
Ialia’s prodding of the fire turns over the coals. There is still some residual heat to them but not enough to use for anything, or to cause any harm.
Having exhausted all of the information presented by the camp, Calen takes the lead in following the trail north. It’s an easy enough task for the Selûnite, not least because your quarry comes into sight from higher vantage points. On horseback you are able to close the distance before too long. As you approach, you can make out dark hair and you catch sight of flashes of emerald green from beneath his travelling cloak. A stringed instrument is strapped to the top of his pack.
The man has noticed your pursuit - or at least the fact you are taking an uncannily similar route - and stops. He turns and calls out in a rich voice, ”Hail, friends! I’m flattered by the attention but what have I done to deserve such an escort?”
The dwarf frowns as he straightens up from his sniffing. The smell is... not Glan. Not obviously. Smells like human. But... this is still their best lead, even if he has a sinking suspicion it is a false one.
Pick keeps his brooding thoughts to himself as they work on catching up with the track-maker. Who, Pick notes with disappointment, is not Glan, as soon as they are close enough for him to be able to pick out details.
"Not Glanwyn," he says to the others, but does not object to approaching anyway. Perhaps those who are good at speaking can learn something from him.
Ialia reached the same conclusion as Pick when she discovered the coals were still warm, meaning this camp site was used overnight, and unlikely to have been occupied by Glanwyn, who left Dagger Springs at least a tenday before.
Ialia learned her lesson with the two tavern owners, that sweet couple she failed to impress. It was her curse, she has always reasoned, the strangeness of her appearance was off-putting, and no effort to her manner with people seemed to change the fact that at first, strangers were always standoffish. It was a lonely sort of pattern of existence, but it came with power. A tradeoff she readily accepted.
She smiled at the man with the instrument, but allowed Joreld or Calen to speak on behalf of the party.
"We beg pardon, sir." The red scaled warrior smiled. "Our number are looking for a lost hunter. He's rumored to be in the area."
The man meets Joreld's smile with one of his own on his stubbled face. "And what is my purpose here? Am I suspect, accomplice or, indeed, your missing man? I've been called many things in my time and I can catch my own dinner but as sure as Silvanus is stout, I've rarely been blessed with the title 'hunter'." He runs a hand through his locks. "You may as well approach and save all of our voices, not to mention alerting half the dale to our location. I'm never going to outpace your steeds and the only time I like odds of five against one is in a festhall." If he doesn't physically wink - it's hard to tell at this distance - it's certainly implied in his last comment.
Samara urges her mount forward at a leisurely pace. With no weapons in hand, she tries to look harmless. ”Please, we ask questions, sayyid. Have seen odd things or danger soonly? Where come from for fortnight?” She tries to read any deceptions in his answers.
“Now, we ain’t callin’ you a hunter or a suspect,” he starts, voice low and easy. “But we’re lookin’ for someone who might’ve passed this way—a fella name of Glanwyn. Can’t say we’ve got the luxury of overlookin’ any potential lead, you see. So, tell us plain: what’s brought you to these parts, and what’ve you seen worth notin’ these past couple weeks?”
He leans back slightly in his saddle, resting a hand near the hilt of his crossbow, saddled for now to the side of the horse for easy access, but keeping it casual. His gaze remains locked on the man, searching for any flicker of unease or dishonesty in his response.
“’Course,” Calen adds, tone growing just a shade lighter, if it turns out you’re just passin’ through, we’ll tip our hats and be on our way. But if you’ve got somethin’ useful to share, well... we’d be much obliged.”
Pick asks no questions, at least not from the man. He keeps his eyes on their surroundings, scanning sky as well as the earth below, though he doesn't really expect Glan's footprints to magically appear here. The false trail means lost time... and a much wider swath of wilderness that could be hiding any sign of the scout.
Perhaps if he were to wear an eagle's form he could scout more efficiently... but it would mean leaving the others.
A flicker of concern briefly flits across the man's face at Calen's tone and fingers a little too close to his crossbow for his liking. Perhaps he is now regretting his invitation for you to come closer. "No need for that, friends. More than happy to answer your questions and be what help I can, though I'm not sure I can do much for you. To the point - to tell you plain, as it were - when you say strange things I'm guessing you're not talking about the shaved cockatrice I saw being shown off down by Marsember docks a couple of tendays ago or what the good lady Hasawa of Archenbridge is rumoured to be willing to do for a few flagons at the Drunken Lion?" He clears his throat. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of Glanwyn's acquaintance, though without a description of your man I can't say for sure."
"As for me, the name's Narm, and if I told you I was a travelling minstrel then I'd trust that you'll take my word for it." He makes an exaggerated gesture with his arm, passing it around his head and twirls around to show off the instruments attached to his pack. As well as the stringed instrument you can now also see a small hand drum akin to a tambourine without the bells, and a songhorn, a simple woodwind instrument popular all over the Realms except with those suffering from hangovers.
"I'm headed to Castle Enneth to sing for my supper. The riders are usually a good sort and I consider it a good deed to keep the troops entertained. More than happy to give you a demonstration as well if it turns out my word isn't enough." He takes up the stringed instrument, a cittern, and runs his fingers lightly across the strings. "'Never a waste an audience', as Tildran of Westgate once told me," he grins, before picking out some notes and runs his voice through a musical scale. It's clear from this that whatever else he may be, his musical capabilities are real enough. "Do any of you play?" he asks. "And seeing as you have me at a disadvantage, it would only be fair to let me know who it is I'm speaking with."
"We are a search party from Dagger Falls. Gladwyn, the hunter, was said to be in this area." The red scaled warrior shifs in hisn saddle.
"I am Joreld Huntsilver from Cormyr, a paladin of Lathander, and former Purple Dragon."
The sorceress is largely lost to the minstrel’s slick and jovial patter, likely designed to ease the mood of listeners. This was a pattern she had noted among the Dalelanders trying to be ‘charming’ – using many words to say very little of import. It was probably better that much of it went uncomprehended. Still, she does lock onto two fragments that elicit responses – one of common politeness and the other of curiosity:
”…it would only be fair to let me know who it is I'm speaking with.”
Samara offers a hesitant wave – an unaccustomed gesture. ”I am Samara, of the Bedine in dessert. Hullo.”
”Do any of you play?”
”You know some maqam, um, Bedine singings?”
".... Pick."
The dwarf would no doubt prefer to leave it there, but he is aware that, unfortunately, he is the only one of them who can provide an actual physical description of Glanwyn, which the man has asked for. Reluctantly, he clears his throat.
"Missing man is elf. He is.... this high," a hand in the air to indicate Glan's height, "...hair... this length..." another gesture, "...color of..."
Pick thinks a moment, then supplies a suitable natural substance in the world that is the same color as Glan's hair.
Ialia is more than a little surprised that her companions have so willingly given information to this complete stranger. It was one thing to reveal their intentions to the tavern owners in Dagger Springs, where Glanwyn was known to frequent, but this man was as likely to know Glanwyn as Lathander. In her opinion as someone who spent the past two years working in a clandestine nature, the group had bungled this approach quite badly.
She sends a Message to Calen and Joreld, pointing at them and whispering:
Calen stiffens slightly as Ialia’s voice threads through his mind, her pointed words striking a chord. He keeps his face impassive, his hat tilted forward to mask his reaction, and subtly shifts his gaze toward her as if gauging her intent.
Leaning slightly in his saddle, he mutters under his breath, his voice low and touched with a dry drawl. "Ain’t no need to fret, Miss Ialia. I’ve got my eye on him." His hand brushes the brim of his hat, a gesture that could just as easily be taken for adjusting it as a signal he’s heard her.
Turning his focus back to the man, Calen’s gaze sharpens. He lets Joreld and Samara continue their line of questioning, but the Selûnite is watching closely now—not just for answers, but for tells. His eyes flit to the stranger’s hands, his posture, the way he shifts his weight or hesitates.
If this man had nothing to offer, Calen resolved to cut the conversation short. Suspicion had always served him well, and he wasn’t about to abandon it now.
Calen continues to observe the mans behavior.
Pick glances briefly in Ialia's direction but his default stony expression does not change.
He also feels that if the man has nothing to share they should move on-- but there is the slight issue of 'to where', given that this lead has seemingly dried up. They can resume a general northernly route, of course, but the field of search to hopefully find Glan's trail has now widened considerably again. Pick absently picks his teeth with one sharp thumbnail while he waits to see if there is any response at all from the talkative man.
Though he supposes there is one question that has pricked at him--
"Enneth is east. Where you come from, out here? Not many places to play local."
Samara’s brow creases almost imperceptibly.
"Huntsilver, you say?" Narm's eyebrows raise. "A pleasure to meet you, my lord. And you too, Miss Samara. I've never travelled to the lands of the Bedine so if I do know any of their music, then I'm unaware of it's origins. The fault for that is entirely mine. Have you some you'd like to share? Always looking to add to my repertoire."
The man turns to face the dwarf. "I'd hoped to play at a little town over to the east. Green Orc? No, Green Orb, that's it, but they were not, let's say, musical connoisseurs. In the face of such a frosty reception I made camp well away." Narm scratches his chin. "In fact 'orcs' is about right, not your usual Dales hospitality," he muses. "And before that out of Shadowdale Town and Ashabenford and places 'twixt the two. Did I pass the test?" he asks with a smile.
Pick gazes steadily at the man, head tilting slowly to the side.
"You leave Green Orb.... go west... two days travel on foot, to be here. Enneth is north from Green Orb. One day on foot. Long... way around to get to... Enneth. Why come west so far?"
His expression is stony and unsmiling-- which could be distrust, or could just be his resting granite face.
”You have the advantage of me, good dwarf. Pick was it? Clearly you are more familiar with the lay of the land here than I.” Narm looks a little sheepish. ”Truth be told, I wasn’t paying so much attention to where I was heading when I was making such a, um, hasty exit, as I was on getting away with myself and my possessions in one piece. I’m an artist, not a woodsman,” he adds. ”I swear by Selûne.”
The dwarf's eyes narrow a bit at the man. "Hnnhh. Tell all truth, not look like fool."
He turns to the others and gives a little shrug. "May be fool, but not crime to be fool. Or many go jail. We keep going? Or more questions?"
"I'm ready to continue the search", Joreld said, internally whincing for the poor man. "Thank you for your time, Narm. Sorry to inconvenience you."