An ill wind blows.

But, not before Margedda, goddess bless me, breezes in herself; complete with cauterization equipment. Maybe she brought some turnips with her. This old joint could use a turnip shooter or two.

Shivering under my leathers, I watch as Arbin departs, but not before secretly chuckling at the two most recent poetry recitations.

I then notice the oddly dressed woman standing at the bar with a flask of something in her hand. She's examining the glass Arbin had handed her. I hear her inquire about its cleanliness.

"My dear woman, if there is something offensive on that glass, I assure you, the contents of your flask will remove all traces of interloping substances."

*Turning to Maev.*

"If the mood around this place doesn't liven up, I think I'll be joining Arbin."

*Nodding to Meara.*

"Those wolves will come in handy. Do they like spilled mead?"