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I'm juggling some business with a new job and planning a comedy event, so I'm not super on top of things. I'm trying to keep up, but if something slips under my nose and needs my urgent attention, please let me know.

Of the reality of satisfaction and vengeance, Eurid says, "I believe you'll learn otherwise." He is content to leave it at that, however, as Shard approaches. "Oi, chit. Grub's getting cold." He gestures to the feast laid out on the table.

"I'd never spit that you oughta be grateful," Eurid says. It may read like a jab, but he says it sincere. "Whole thing's a sick bleedin' joke. Gratitude or resentment... we all have our chains, strapping us in." "Say you win back your kip. Whatsit? A 'duchy'? Every wish granted. And then what...

"Looks it sometimes," Eurid says with a nod, responding to the duke. "But this ain't the Prime or the Inners. Material is, well... immaterial here." He glances around at his scattered companions before continuing. "Where you're from, they got armies, aye? Kings and nations and clans. And a...

"Rest easy, Lord Hathfall," Eurid answers the man. "I'm off duty." After a dram of wine, the dustman wipes his mouth on his sleeve. "But you know, you should show respect to the Dustmen. We're the ones're gonna pull your corpse out of a ditch one o' these days. Worse friends to have than me."

Eurid watches the scene sprawling throughout the tavern with a quiet sort of distance. He's seen it a hundred times; the way the average Prime can stop worrying about the strangeness of Outer Planar reality once he's got a roof over his head and a flagon of cheap bub in his hand. Good ol'...

Eurid watches the strange courting rituals of the goat people from over the heaping platters of food. He casts a glance to Shard, to Rusty, and to the pile of rat corpses that indicate Picayune's general location. "Soup's on, cutters." He pitches an olive pit (or something similar) at Ozy's...

Just want to lend my voice to the chorus of support. For all the (often deserved) bad reputation that gamers have for being especially reactionary, there are few hobbies where the actual industry leadership is so progressive and open. Excelsior!

"Don't know the dark on no Earth or Feywild," Eurid confesses to his companions. "But the multiverse is a sodding big place." Asked about his adventures out of town, the paladin leans back in his chair and thinks a moment. He taps a finger on the edge of the table as he lists each of the places...

Yeah, I don't get where you're coming from on this. That's not to say that you aren't entitled to your feelings about it, but as a DM, I would be shocked to learn that one of my players was mad about me inviting other people to my game or that other folks were playing his preferred class.

Eurid accepts the offering with limited disgust. He's not uncomfortable handling dead things. "Never laid ear on a New Orleans, no," he answers. "S'at Oerth? Toril? Well, no matter. We can check in at the Hall of Records. Nobody's better for finding a backwater berg than a taxman."

Eurid has settled in to answer questions and offer advice, but he's content to let the Primes explore the bar at their leisure until they come to him of their own volition.

Suspecting his companions likely don't know what sort of grub is available in these parts, Eurid takes the initiative and orders a suitable meal for the lot. "Dog stew," he says. "All around. With potatoes and dretch gravy." He glances around for a specials board a moment as he thinks. "Eh...

Eurid passes by the spilled coppers and points out the razorvine to his companions. "Mind that, cutters," he advises. After tipping an imagined hat to the cranium rat, Eurid slides against the wall to let the laborers pass by and heads into the taproom.

Eurid nods, satisfied with the display, and heads into the bar. When Shard asks if he knows the ghost, he shrugs. "Might be so, but I reckon not. Won't know for sure until I ear a tag." As to why he hasn't sent it on to the True Death... "It's got to be willing. Rare thing for a ghost. Them...

"Oh, well hi there," Eurid says to the white glove that reaches out to him. "Reckon that's our ghost again, oi?" He shakes the hand, glancing around in the air ahead for other signs of the spirit. When Shard distracts him with news of the rabble, he turns to have a look himself. "Xaosmen, I...

Eurid pushes off the post with a flourish of his tail and staggers toward the bar entrance. "Aye, aye!" he reports. "But, eh... what's a tiger?" His field of view shifted, he spots Rusty cheating at three-cups. He snaps his fingers and points, attempting to draw Lili's attention to the scene.

On the subject of sentient books, I believe there's a library on the Outlands that contains every book that was never written. They're pretty strict about their tomes getting out into the multiverse, but I figured it might be a useful detail for you to take advantage of.

Eurid hasn't given his name yet, I don't think. He's not secretive about it, though. Just an oversight on my part. Eurid leans against an oil-lamp post on the street corner with his arms crossed over his chest, deformed hand twitching absently as he watches Shard chastise the Defier. When Lili...

Eurid pauses a moment to allow the others to explore these relatively safe sights and sounds. He glances up to the smog-thick sky to judge whether it's time to draw their attention to Sigil's strangest geographical quality, but decides to hold off until it can actually be seen. For those curious...