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Three floors of rooms, warm hearths, and stout ales sum up the Talking Head Tavern, a massive mead hall in the town of Callambea. Lem and Ara Ruckleshank keep the place tidy, oversee the rooms, and feed the weary travelers that call the Talking Head home.
As a new adventurer approaches, he looks up to see the skull of a giant, still wearing its primitive battle helmet. As patrons enter the head laughs, its teeth chattering gibberish in welcome. The plaque by the door simply reads:
Welcome to the Talking Head. Don't mind the head, he's just Ol' Grolva.
((OOC, and with apologies to Khas for liberties taken with the original description:
The Talking Head Tavern thread is a place for fun, non conformed roleplay.
Nothing that happens in this tavern affects canon in any major sense. Instead it is designed to give people a place to interact in character before Pathfinder Online launches. It is not a place for guided story arcs, but a place for character introductions and conversational posts. No one is here to judge if the conversations get goofy, it is meant to be taken loosely. The most important part is to have fun.
The Talking Head is an imaginary bar set in Pax Aeternum's planned settlement, Callambea. Just imagine your character in a warm, inviting tavern, and see where the conversations lead.))
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The tavern's interior was as dim as always, and Deianira blinked a bit coming in from the late afternoon sunlight. Not many people this time of day, but Ara waved from behind the bar and pointed her to her usual spot near the fire. Dei settled in and pulled her half-finished letter home from her bag. Three days, and she still wasn't finished, but if she wanted it to start the long trek home, it needed to leave tomorrow with the caravan.
Thank you for the revised copy of "Stefan and Arabelle". Callambea doesn't have a playhouse, so it may be a while before anyone is here to perform it. Right now, the tavern does double duty whenever a bard passes through, but entertainment is more dwarven drinking songs than Andoran comedies.
Tell Grandmere -"
She broke off to beam her thanks at Ara for the goblet of wine the other woman thumped onto the table, and took a fortifying gulp. Tell Grandmere what, exactly? That her granddaughter still hadn't blown herself up with untrained fae-blood magic? That she did more talking than casting anyway? Or that sitting in a dim tavern in a trading town in the middle of nowhere remained infinitely preferable to another round of parties in Almas? She shook her head, scribbled general well-wishes, and leaned back. Duty done. And just in time for the evening crowd...
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Xeen a dirty looking pointy ear, who has spent too much time in the wilderness, sneaks a peak in the bars side window. He does not want to be noticed by those out to bring him to "justice."
One thing Xeen is good at is moving unnoticed. Ara jumped a little when she heard a quiet voice "I would like a room please." Ara grabs the books and looks at the registrations. "I have a nice room that will come with a warm bath for 5gp per night" says Ara after smelling him across the bar. "That will do quite well, here is 10gp for any extras you may have and the name is Malthus."
Xeen grabs his bags and heads to his room.
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Goblin Squad Member
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A fire-headed dwarf with an amiable smile walks into the tavern with a waddling, slightly limping gait. In his hands he carries three pieces of fine vellum sealed with wax. He is dressed in the clothing of a lower-end travelling merchant, a suit of studded leather armor covering the majority of his body with a backpack hanging from his shoulders and several heavy pouches on his hips.
Alk sends modest smiles and nods of his head toward the congregated people who happen to glance his way, and waves to the chattering head as if a familiar friend. He makes his way to the bar, where he jumps up to plant his rear on one of the stools. He carefully lays the rolled-up vellum papers together on the bar, keeping the pile clear of any drinks already present.
To the kind-looking barkeep, Alk clears his voice and says with a polite smile, "Hello miss. Can you get me a flagon of ale? The dust is kickin' up on the road fierce today, and I need somethin' to clear m' throat." He pulls his backpack off his back and puts it on the floor in between his feet, glancing behind himself. He pats his various pouches and puts a hand to a dagger on his side, then seems to relax, content with his quick inventory of his personal articles. Finally, he glances to either side, giving a quick nod and smile to the people sitting with him.
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A hooded and dusty traveler approaches the tavern from a side alley. Closing his eyes he pauses to take in the sounds around him. Satisfied that he hears no weapons being drawn, he moves across the street to the tavern door. Knowing his entry will be announced, he shakes the tiredness from his shoulders to make it easier to react and enters. Hood down he makes a quick survey of the main room, then moves to a small empty table near the fire. As he sits down he sees that a barmaid has just delivered a drink to someone by the fire. He catches her eye and when she comes over he says, "Some hot water and a mug please."
"We have some hot soup if you like". The man thanks her and orders a bowl. When the water and mug arrives he puts three of the many pouches attached to his pack on the table, removes some herbs from each, and places them in the mug. As he slowly pours the hot water into the mug a light, wholesome aroma begins to spread out from the table.
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Are there any girls there?
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He was a tall but slim man, easily towering over most others. Light leather armor covered most of his features, adorned with various symbols that must hold some sort of meaning to him. A small leather bound book which seems almost pristine in condition hung from his belt, along side two nicely crafted knives. However these were not his most striking features, whatever part of his body that wasn't covered by his armor, had blue tattoos that rang along his body and face, glowing and pulsing ever so slightly.
It had been a long hike to the nearest tavern, or any form of civilization for that matter, and though he wasn't tired, he found himself quite hungry, almost desperately so. It had been a long time since he had eaten, now that he thought about it. Though he was not averse to hunting for game, why waste the energy now that a tavern was in sight?
He opened the doors and took the closet seat to the bar, not seeming to notice others as he focused more on the staff. He ordered plenty, more then one man should eat, but he was ravenous, or perhaps there was more to it? His coin pouched jingled as he reached for it, opening it, and paying quickly as he awaited his food. All of his motions seemed calculated and with precision, no wasted movement, no wasted word, and now he began to turn to scan the room, catching short glimpses of the rest of the patrons that arrived at this quaint little establishment.
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He was a tall but slim man, easily towering over most others. Light leather armor covered most of his features, adorned with various symbols that must hold some sort of meaning to him. A small leather bound book which seems almost pristine in condition hung from his belt, along side two nicely crafted knives. However these were not his most striking features, whatever part of his body that wasn't covered by his armor, had blue tattoos that rang along his body and face, glowing and pulsing ever so slightly.
Alk sips from his mug, his face momentarily dropping into a look of tired vigilance, like the face of a lone guard on a dark and stormy night. As he glances to the new arrival to the bar, his façade returns and he is once again friendly smiles and warm gestures.
Alk looks over to Cyneric with interest, the man's glowing tattoos causing him to gain the glances of many of the patrons. He lowers his tankard carefully beside the vellum, then turns more fully toward the tattooed man and chats, "Terrible day fer travel, eh? The dust on the roads 'round these parts is liable to get me ill, 'f the wind keeps up like this." He offers a hand and greets him with, "M'name's Alk Caskenflagon, how do ye do sir?" His warm smile and well-groomed hair and beard serve to paint the dwarf as a non-threat.
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He had various plates of food and drink in front of him, mostly meats and bread in sizable quantity, along with a couple of tankards of water, finishing off one glass only to down the next. He looked up from his meal as the dwarf spoke, his blue eyes seemed to have a slight metallic sheen to them as he listened to him speak. "It seems fine to me." He said as he shook the man's hand firmly, but didn't smile or act anywhere near as jubilant, yet neither did he frown, or seem brooding. "I am Cyneric." He uttered plainly, and it took him a moment to think on how to answer the man's question. He thought for a moment, before seeming to remember how to properly answer such a thing. "I am fine, and yourself sir Caskenflagon?"
As he awaited a reply, he turned back to his food and continued eating.
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Kaðlin picks herself slowly up from the floor. Mead and ale and whatever that green stuff was appear to not go together so well, she thought as she touched the side of her pounding head tenderly. Bleary eyed, she felt around on the floor until she found Besaera, her greatsword. Her Da would kill her if she lost that! It was his own grandfather's before him and was a treasured family heirloom. She heaved a sigh of relief as she pulled it closer, though the movement raised an entire new level of pain between her beleaguered temples. She coughed something vile from the back of her throat and instantly regretted it for many, many reasons. Sitting up, she could just see over the edge of the table under which she had spent the night. Blinking heavily, she looked around and saw the still snoring form of Björn a few feet away. Looks like the green stuff got him, too.
With a heavy thunk, Ara Ruckleshank placed a large bowl full of steaming water on the table directly in front of Kaðlin who winced at the sudden loud noise. Ara tsked at the pair of Ulfen and shook her head with a grin. She reached down and placed her hands under Kaðlin's arms to help her stand. "'Tis a fine pair you two make! I swear you drank half the bar last night! And don't go thinking we're not grateful that neither of you broke any tables arm-wrestlin' this time now."
Rising unsteadily to her feet, Kaðlin gratefully put her entire head into the steaming water as far as it would go. She sucked in the warm water and swished it around before spitting it back into the bowl as she pulled her head free. "Aye, Ara, I'm glad we didn't break anything, but I swear on me Da's grave tha' I canna remember what we did though!"
"I didn't say you didn't break anything, Kat dear. I just said we's grateful you didn't break any tables! Crockery is a different matter, and I'll be settling up with you and this one," she kicked Björn's leg under the table, "when you both sober up and are a wee bit more awake."
Ara started to remove the bowl, but Kaðlin stopped her, shaking her dripping head. "Björn will want to wash up as well, so ye might as well leave it." Ara nodded and walked back toward the kitchen. Kat watched her as she went and said to her back, "Are ye sure we didn't drink the whole bar?" but Ara just waved her off as she walked through the door.
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Alk glances to the impressive amount of food displayed in front of Cyneric, and decides he can't make conversation with someone who's eating if he himself isn't eating. Alk calls over to Ara, saying to her, "Lovely miss! Can y' get me some o' this bread as well?" He picks up his tankard of ale daintily, watching his vellum as he does so. He turns again to Cyneric, lifting the ale to his lips and taking another refreshing gulp before saying, "Ahhh. I'm much better now tha' I'm off m' feet an' on my seat. Huh!"
He looks over Cyneric's person more closely, observing what appear to be runes carved into his armor and noticing the book tucked carefully away. He says to the man, "Y'look like someone who's got magic about 'im. Tell me, d'ye practice the art?" With that he makes a vague gesture towards the book, with his other hand unconsciously headed toward his pack on the ground.
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As Ara waited with a wet cloth in her hand, she watched Jorm, the Talking Head's chief bouncer, carry out another table from the back room to accommodate all the new arrivals. She had watched him a thousand times, lifting some large enough to seat eight as easily as she jostled chairs, but it never got old. He shrugged it off his shoulder, flipped it feet-side-down, and slid it into place against the wall.
At nearly nine feet tall, some called him a freak of nature. Others claimed he was a half-ogre mix, but since Jorm never spoke, no one had ever gotten a straight answer and Ara had never felt the need to ask. Some time back, he had squeezed through the front door with a written recommendation from Master Krows. After handing her the note, he had set about unloading a week's supply of barrels, the size of which typically required two or three men to maneuver into the storehouse. He had been here ever since.
Regardless of his origin, Ara just liked watching him work - his effortless strength and slow, easy pace. Even when removing unruly customers, the need for which happened far less than many would suspect, it was done with minimal effort, like others would sweep the floor or dry a dish. More often than not, the sight of Jorm focusing his tiny, dark eyes upon an unruly patron, coupled with the thought of what might come next, was sufficient to discourage further foolishness. When a more hands-on approach was called for, he never grew angry nor used more force than the task required. For all his size, he somehow managed to stay out of the way of the constant flow of customers, and when he wasn't lifting this or moving that, he quietly sat upon a great oaken stump that served as his stool. It resided in one of the dimmer corners, clear of traffic and the more skittish patrons who might be unsettled by the appearance of the Talking Head's resident giant.
As she began to wipe down the table, Ara smiled her thanks and received his usual reply - a short, slow nod. Watching him saunter back towards his stool, she grinned to herself, thinking, As long as he's on our side, he don't have to say a word.
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A thud is heard at the door. It slowly creeps open. BANG! A body drops to the floor.
"I put the lotion in the basket granny" a voice slurs drunkenly.
A few seconds later the dirt laden dwarf stands up and staggers over to his usual corner. He receives some odd looks from people who don't seem to recognize him.
"It's me, Rand....zzzzzz... Hey! ummm yea. Randovar Ironbear!"
His stench appears to offend some as he passes by them.
He slumps down into his chair without any regard for safety.
"Ale....zzzzz.... Ale! Please! zzzzzz...."
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Harad Navar watches the exchanges of patrons by not watching. Noting their positions he keeps track of their movements and their conversations with his hearing as he motions for three more mugs and more hot water. When these arrive he returns two of the pouches to his pack and withdraws three more. From the four he mixes herbs into one of the mugs. Some herbs he crushes, some he brakes, others he picks only the dried blossoms from their stems. He pores hot water into mug and stirs with a small rod he produces from his inner vest. Placing his hands over the top of the mug he becomes very still. His ki infuses the contents and after a few moments he takes a cloth from his pack, covers the top of the mug, and pours the contents through the cloth equally between the two remaining mugs. He wrings the cloth back into his mixing mug, picks up the two drafts and approaches the table where Kaðlin sits holding her head. He gently places both on the table, startling her. "Please excuse me, did not intent to approach unannounced. These are for you and your compatriot. They will ease your digestion and quite your head." He bows slightly and returns to his table.
On passing the odoriferous dwarf half asleep in the corner he motions for more mugs and more hot water. He carefully avoids the gaze of the tattooed patron calling himself Cyneric and returns to his table. His soup has arrived and as he begins to eat he continues his not watching. Cyneric interests him because he moves in a way that suggests he may be a monk. If he is not, then he has other training that must be considered. The large mover of furniture moves like someone who is very cognizant of his size and strength, someone who calculates all his movements so he only breaks things by design. Harad suspects that his size and appearance must give opponents the false impression that he is not intelligence. Harad does not plan to make such a mistake.
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Are there any girls there?
She saunters across the room and sits down right next to Harad Navar, facing him."I'll have whatever you're buying me - well, except Pumpkin ale".
She leans in a bit more, flashes a smile, and in a lower voice purrs "You intrigue me, I can't wait to hear all about you".Deianira notices the redhead has placed herself in a way that draws the men's attention away from Deianira.
Harad realizes he didn't actually notice her come in the door. Just before she locks her eyes on his he briefly glimpses a stiletto concealed in her bodice.
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Harad continues to refresh the mug he is using to mix his drafts as he says, "Ah, yes. I believe that Surly Pumpkin Ale couldn't be much worst than the beer they brew in my village. In our dialect its name translates to 'Pegasus Piss'."
He moves the mixing mug to one side, covering it with his straining cloth. He has not yet activated it with his ki. He picks up his pack from the floor and begins to return his pouches to their proper place. "I am only making drafts to ease the body from unwise choices. One can not make wise choices from the pain of unwise ones. The only thing I can offer you at the moment is some tea."
Having finished putting his pack in order he moves it to the chair next to him. In doing so he shifts his chair slightly to keep this new arrival from completely blocking his view of the other patrons. A partial view is sufficient to give him any necessary warning. He leans forward to mirror her posture and in an equally low voice says, "Intrigue involves secrets. When one moves to purposefully reveal their secrets it is not intrigue. It is intent. What is it you intend I wonder? Do you intend to remain anonymous and mysterious?"
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As he resumed his eating, he would occasionally glance as he heard or saw new people with curiosity, wondering who they might be or if they posed a threat. When he was satisfied that he was safe in his seat, he would return to the food before him and the dwarf beside him as he listened to the man's question. "I do, and I always have. I take it you also practice then sir?"
He would eventually make quick work of his large meal, but instead of being tired or relaxed, he was instead energized and a bit more wired, as if all that was keeping him in a slump was not the long travel time, but just a simple lack of a nice hot meal. He pushed aside his plates to make room for his current mug of simple water, and for a nice place to rest against, as he began to watch the other patrons more carefully, always keeping his ears open as he tried to both watch and hold a conversation with the dwarf. He wanted to know more about a few certain patrons, but for now he was content to let his eyes dart between people every couple of moments, notably lingering the longest on the man making tea, with curious interest, that he didn't try to hide.
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Do you intend to remain anonymous and mysterious?"
Her disarming laugh almost conceals the little flash of annoyance.
"Thank you, tea it is then."She gently waits for the cup, tastes it, and continues. "Exactly what kind of unwise choices is this supposed to help against? And where in the world would anyone trying to do business call their beer 'Pegasus Piss'?"
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Alk notes the man's wariness, and his constantly darting eyes. He seems a very careful sort, most likely a seasoned adventurer based on his stated profession and attitude. Alk responds to Cyneric with, "Ah, yes, I was raised in th' art back in me clan, and I still practice it quite vig'rously." His hand which headed to his backpack pulls a journal sized book bound in black leather halfway out of the backpack and shows it to Cyneric, then returns it to his bag.
Alk motions to the vellum as he adds a little quiter, "'N fact I got some scrolls here 'm lookin' to make use of." He reaches for his mug once again and takes a gulp before setting it down and saying, "Well sir, I ain't seen you 'round here b'fore. You just passin' through, or is our lack 'f meetin' afore today just the will o' Desna?" Alk also takes a moment to scan the room as Cyneric is doing, checking his immediate surroundings for anyone shifty looking.
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A startled snicker is heard from the vestibule. A well-dressed brown haired, and clean shaven middle aged man moving past the talking skull...carefully inspecting the 'artifact' and investigating it's enchantments.
He wanders to a seat at the bar, and orders a nice red stout; preferably warm; and a plate of the daily feature.
Laying a well-used backpack on the bar, patched with vudrani silk and ulfen wool, contents smelling of herbs and sulfer.
His purple-blue tunic is clasped with a tiny bronze statuette of a regal looking feather-winged muscular human, left arm outstretched pointing at the heavens.
He nods to the bartender, "Good day master-keeper, anything interesting about?" ...
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"Exactly what kind of unwise choices is this supposed to help against? And where in the world would anyone trying to do business call their beer 'Pegasus Piss'?"
Harad notices that the two at the bar have returned their attention to observing the other patrons. He can detect the smell of herbs and sulfur on the man that has just entered and thinks that they are more like spell components than simple herbs. He searches his memory to try and identify the meaning of the distinctive clap on his cloak, but it does not remind him of any region, religion, or faction of which he is aware.
"What we are sharing is just tea. The drafts I provided to those Ulfen was meant to ease the unwise choice of too much drink. I was preparing another for the dwarf sleeping in the corner. But I am amazed that he can sleep within that olfactory shield he has erected. If I could find the herbs to replicate such a unique emanation, I could probably use it as dragon repellent."
"As for the beer's name, one day our tavern master received travelers from the Mwangi Expanse, three very tall women with two man-servants. They did not speak Kelish, but the servants could speak a broken common. He became disenchanted with the women's attitude when the manservant demanded the best beer in the house. What he did provide them was a vile concoction we used to calm angry camels. They loved it, and since they did not know Kelish, he named it in Kelish 'Pegasus Piss'. It has become an 'in' joke in my village."
"You were eager to know something of me. I believe that a reciprocation would be appropriate."
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"You were eager to know something of me. I believe that a reciprocation would be appropriate."
"ah, the mystery, yes. Ask and I will provide an answer. Then choose what to believe".
She shoots a quick glance at the creaking ceiling and tenses for a split second, then relaxes again. She obviously notices the newcomer and his clasp but shows no sign of recognition.
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"Why don't you want me to see the woman in the corner?"
she is clearly caught off-guard by the question, but recovers quickly.
"I'm disappointed you waste your question like that. The answer is obvious: because I wanted you to see the other one"."...or perhaps I wanted to see what she would do when your attention was elsewhere. You decide".
"My turn. Why the river kingdoms? You are no merchant, I see no scimitar, and a fugitive would not run that far unless... ", she lets the thought pass unspoken. "And I won't believe you came here to pick tea leaves - so why?"
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A tall tanned human male plods down the stairs step by step. His tunic is untied at the chest and his pants are worn. He yawns a bit, covering his mouth before running his hand through his long black locks. He notices a still drunken Randovar sitting at a table by himself, shouting for ale. He wades over to the bar and leans over, pouring three. He then sits at the table with Randovar and slides him an ale before commencing to drink the other two.
Where the hell are the Warstiens? They shoulda been here by now.
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Harad looks at her steadily for a moment, then seems to make up his mind.
"All the paths we walk in this life have many branches, many crossroads, that can take you to ends that can not be seen. It's all about choices. Many I have met here all seem to have made the same choice. We are all here. Even you. Some think we are spiraling down into a time when we will have no choice at all, except to live or to die, and even that choice may be denied us in the end. Sarenrae has given me a candle to light my way but it only shows me my next step. Irori gives me the strength to keep taking the next step. And, step after step, here we all are. I wonder who lights your steps. More tea?"
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Scanning the room, the middle aged man rises, starts moving toward the man with the tea.
With a slight nod he queries; 'I have not smelled that blend before, its aroma is interesting...', with a slight pause, trying to avoid being rude, 'You seem well-traveled and I have a few questions about the road. May I join you for drink and conversation? I am Braxinbalivan Kalonnor.'
Brax approaches the table, a friendly grin on his face...
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I am Harad Navar. I do not know this woman, however, but you are welcome to join us. I seem to be in demand today.
Harad turns to the woman with the pointed ... bodice, and says Maybe you will ask the woman with the letter to join us?
Looking back at Brax he says I brought this tea from Katapesh. You may find it a littel dry.
Are there any girls there?She saunters across the room and sits down right next to Harad Navar, facing him."I'll have whatever you're buying me - well, except Pumpkin ale".
She leans in a bit more, flashes a smile, and in a lower voice purrs "You intrigue me, I can't wait to hear all about you".Deianira notices the redhead has placed herself in a way that draws the men's attention away from Deianira.
Harad realizes he didn't actually notice her come in the door. Just before she locks her eyes on his he briefly glimpses a stiletto concealed in her bodice.
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Brax approaches the table, a friendly grin on his face...
She turns her head and beams a smile at Brax. "Ah, another interesting person. Please join."
She raises her eyebrow, "But asking directions from a Katapesh, are you southbound?" She casts a glance at the Ulfen and the smelly dwarf "or did you simply evaluate your options?"To Harad she says "Give her a few more minutes. Besides, you haven't noticed her yet - wait until she gives up writing and looks up: that's your moment! oops".
She quickly turns back to Brax: "So.. ehm.. what were you saying?"
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'Harad, I noticed you looking at my clasp, It is of the Celestial known as Talmandor, the patron of Andoran. The avoral is a herald of the sacred three, Iomedae, Erastil and Shelyn.'
'I was a professor of Divination at a small school in Augustana, but I recently have accepted a travelling fellowship.'
'It seems that not all the travellers today are... mature,' as Brax points to Qallz,'that being said, it is nice to you... Milady, and Harad Navar'.
'I am travelling to a nearby community, have the roads been safe of late?'
You didn't complete a perception check, which is something you'll have to do if you want to point to me. I'm stealthed by default. Hence I offer no description of my character... becuz u cant c me.
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After a slow look at the woman writing by the fire, Harad motions to Ara for more hot water and mugs. If this keeps up we will need more chairs he says as he makes a head gesture toward the overly large furniture mover sitting in what clearly appears to be his corner. Harad returns his attention to the ambiguous redhead. We are all more than our origins. He and I appear to be equally acquainted with the long and winding road. Whether that road is local or not remains to be seen.
Gestering toward Braxinbalivan he continues: This gentleman is from Andoran which is at the mouth of the Sullen River between Cheliax and Taldor. He has traveled from the south to be here with us in the River Kingdoms. If he were southbound he most likely would already know the way. I believe he is asking about local conditions. Turning to Braxinbalivan he says I hope I have not been impertinent with my reasoning. However, I have just arrived myself after following the Sullen River up from Cassomir. I may not have useful information regarding the local conditions. I only hope they will be less demonstrative than those along the river.
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As Ara brings more mugs and hot water Harad removes two pouches from his pack and begins making more tea. This time he places the leaves into another cloth, twists it closed, and lowers it into the water. I think I shall make a pot this time. As he raises and lowers the improvised bag in the pot he speaks to the redhead saying, I also would like an answer to who you say you are.
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Brax removes a small package from within his well used backpack. Opening the bundle, reveals a small wheel of strong cheese and a dull silver cheese knife. Brax slices up the wheel and offers some to the surrounding guests.
'This goat cheese is from Osirion, a lovely treat called Padak. Please try some, it is quite exquisite.'
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"Andoran, Katapesh, Osirion... the Head is truly cosmopolitan today".
She seeks Harad's gaze "Who I say I am, indeed. As for a name, you will remember me as Foxglove, like the flower. It is a beautiful flower, often cultivated as an ornament in other lands but grows wild in these parts. It has strong healing properties but can blur your sight or even stop your heart if used wrong."
"But of course, as a herbalist, you know this already."
She turns back to Brax. "Apologies for my bluntness, Professor, but you say personal freedom like it belongs to yourself. That's not how we think around here.
This cheese is excellent, by the way, so I will give you a piece of advise. Travel is only dangerous when you appear to bring more value than trouble. Which gives you three options."
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"Freedom is like the cheese. Although it has a powerful aroma, you cannot help but have a taste."
Brax smiles at the Lady.
"I agree that one must be careful, but sometimes, what you see is not..."
Making a few gestures, and uttering some unknown words, Brax's appearance chances to that of a well armoured and seasoned Knight. The professor smiles again, and his apperance reverts to the well-dressed traveller.
"...what you get."
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Harad nods knowingly. "Was that the image of a Steel Falcon Eagle Knight? They have been known to give the slavers of Katapest a spot of trouble now and then."
Harad reaches into his pack and withdraws small bundle wrapped with some sort of waxed velum. Opening the package slowly he reveals the contents as many dried bell shaped flowers, leaves and seeds. "Foxglove is a beautiful flower, but it is also known as Witch's' Glove." I see no animal with you but does that name also apply?"
As he refolds the dried specimens and returns them to his pack he says, "Braxinbalivan, this cheese is very good, however, I am unfamiliar with the name. From where in Osirion does it come?"
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"I see no animal with you but does that name also apply?"
She shakes her head. "The Professor might know it as digitalis, or thimble, but neither am I a seamstress. If you continue like this, you'll end up asking me about the flowers and the bees - or maybe butterflies." .
To Brax she says "Avoral, eagle, ...and maybe a falcon or owl to perch on your shoulder?"
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Goblin Squad Member
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"It is diffucult to get too, and even more to get the monks to trade."
"Now that brings up at least two interesting questions: How did you obtain it, and why share such exclusive fare with strangers on such a trivial occasion?" She is clearly not convinced Brax is telling the truth.
"A knight recently told me 'what you see isn't all you get', or something to that effect".Harad Navar (perceptible as always) notices she has moved her left hand behind her back, straightening her skirts.