Weel Naxel, human oracle
Outside the Inn, there is a clattering commotion, and the sounds of an argument. Or at least, of half of one.
"If the shoe comes off, it cannot want to stay ... no no NO I don't want to give it back. It smells bad and wants to be clean and shiny! ... Because it's telling me!"
The door bursts open, and the source of both clatter and argument becomes apparent. A burly man wearing a decidedly eccentric suit of armor enters. While seemingly constructed from the dregs of other armors and adorned with non-functional gears and clockwork bits, it's still clearly made of superior materials. The man is holding a worn and dirty horseshoe in one hand as he continues to argue with someone none of the other patrons can see.
Now that he's inside, though, there does seem to be a soft babbling noise coming from the air about him. The chair of the table a foot in front of the newcomer tips over with a loud crash, though no one was in any position to have touched it. He rushes to the chair, propping it back up gently, muttering "I'm so sorry, miss, they're very very rude when they're angry."
The chair, mind you, was entirely empty. From the way he gives it a reassuring little pat, though, it seems he wasn't apologizing to anyone in the chair, but to the chair itself.
"And now they're all going to stare at Weel because you're mean and ornery," he chastises the large gear sticking out of the left shoulder of his armor.