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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Guilt Puppy" data-source="post: 627397" data-attributes="member: 6521">As the door swings slowly shut from Faileas' entrance, a gloved hand pops forth, and pushes it back open. A lithe young figure garbed in loose pale-cream cloth, tied tight between the joints of his limbs, comes jogging in behind him. His face and head are covered, wrapped in a loose whitish cloth, his eyes barely visible. Indeed, you see barely any flesh aside from his throat, and his sandaled feet -- his skin is dark, richly tanned, carrying still the sheen of youth. A large quarterstaff is strapped to his back -- a thin, nuanced curving blade emerges from each end, the lower almost scraping across the ground. A thick dagger lies sheathed upon his belt, opposite a thick leather pouch.He catches up to Faileas, steadies him as he sits. He slides sideways, almost weightlessly, onto a seat of his own, and sits erect, the staff on his back hanging perfectly vertical. He makes a few hand gestures at his white-haired companion, who seems to have trouble following... Finally, he leans in, and whispers in Common:"Should you have a large meal? You have had many drinks. You may become sick."Ultimately he lets Faileas have his way, and turns to survey the crowd. As the bartender finds him, he speaks in a low, forced voice: "Water."Still alert, he picks out one word from the crowd: Desert.He leans again, whispers:"There is talk of a desert. We should discover the purpose. It may be nothing. I should listen."</blockquote>

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