Deigning to respond.. (Open)

[Wrenmae]

Weaver winked, spinning out from between them in a wave of cloth and fabric. He paused, facing them, dipping into a deep bow and rising. "Not one for the syrup and sap eh? No matter, no matter, all the best stories are written without knowledge or consent boyo, knowledge OR consent. You're story is the product of a higher power and you'll dance to the music it plays through your strings." He took Lusa's hand suddenly, pulling her toward him and then back toward Malik with a chuckle, "Lusa of the many names, the infinite names the 'call me what you like' How delightful to meet your acquaintance." Stares were drawn to him, filling the bar with silent patrons watching the event. "And to be the honest one, the fair spoken one, any other character would have been a breach of storyline. I chose you because you were on the chapter page, the end of the sentence, the bloody side character and meeting of fates. We all play to fate's design my friend, my friend, and if it wanted me gone, then I would well be playing tale weaver to a crocodile...now wouldn't I?" He took the hand offered, grinning. "Wrenmae," he introduced with a wink, "But you can call me Weaver."

[Malik]

Malik shook the curiously strange man's hand, his analytical gaze traveling all the while down to his equally curious attire. He'd seen his type before. Stark-raving-mad lunatics, prone to fits of narration. He gave a gentle smile and then allowed his voice to part the thin pearlescent gates that were his lips. "You speak in a strange tongue. Why is that?" He soon after hastily added, "Forgive me if I'm overly cautious. I just lost my house, and am therefore a bit more paranoid than usual." Malik lightly brushed his gentle hands over Lusa's shoulders, his smile warming as he held them a bit protectively, unsure of the newcomer's goals. While he was fairly certain that the little woman before him was merely, to a degree, simple and therefore harmless, Weaver seemed a bit more unstable. "Are you a storyteller? Would you regale us with a tale of this, higher power, that seems to have so much dominion over my life perhaps?". While he was strictly ignorant of most organized religion, Malik knew of the power of the gods. He'd witnessed it, a man parting the earth to swallow a woman and her child. Strange figures who could bend light and use it as a weapon. He was, needless to say, inherently curious of a creature who controlled fate.   After all what sort of man didn't want to know his destiny?

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[Lusa]

"Uhm, thank you? It's good to meet you, too." Lusa was understandably...conflicted. On one hand, she was being handled and petted by people, which she enjoyed at a base level thanks to her Kelvic nature, but on the other hand, she felt acutely that this interaction was going over her head. Usually she was alright with not really understanding human conversation, especially when it didn't involve her, but this situation did involve her. Resisting the urge to sigh happily at Malik's light petting of her shoulders, she watched Weaver intently. So he was a storyteller for sure? "Y-yes, please, I love stories, Mister Weaver."

[Oaton Silverhill]

Oaton realized even when he entered the city that he came at a very bad time. If you could even call its formal state “good”. But even as he entered the tavern, it made the alarms in his head go off. Thankfully, he’d just gotten to the city recently as to miss the storm that even he was surprised at the destruction it managed to do. Unthankfully though it meant there was a large chance of people trying to pilfer his supplies. And as much as he would like to leave, the far reaches of the city might be worse. So reluctantly, he decided to go into the nearest establishment he could find, leading him straight to the Pig’s Foot. The tavern might have been a little crowded for his liking, but at least it smelled better. Even if it was more of a drunken pigsty kind than the reeking of dead bodies. But beggars could not be choosers and he’d have to deal with the smell as well as the people. He entered quietly, with no one really paying him mind; something that he prized. As long as no one tried to knick anything off him things would be just fine. Beating humans up wasn’t necessarily the most fun thing in the world if only due to there weak skin. In fact, it felt like a waste of time. But perhaps it was because he hadn’t met one with better battling experience. Maybe then he’d see the true merit of humans. Otherwise, they were quite fragile to his status. So seeking solitude he moved himself to the nearest, empty table; next to the bar where Malik was sitting. As he sat down he faced himself in the opposite direction of the group; preferring to stare at the wall rather than the crowd. It was a little warm for him inside the slightly crowded tavern, which his dark brown leather jacket didn’t help. But he wasn’t about to take it off to show his brightly-colored arm to the world and attract possible attention. For now he needed to rest his feet for a while.

[Wrenmae]

Weaver wheeled with sudden motion, eyes wide and uncomprehending, hands wide and nearly slapping against the Isur's head. He twirled on his feet till he stood still, suddenly, and completely still. His eyes shut gently, and he walked forward. Two steps before he made the bar, sliding between Malik and Lusa and placing both hands on the bar. He tapped it, and again, drumming his hands and fingers against the wood like rain shattering the peace of the tavern. Again, again, again. And then he spoke. "Long ago, but not long by the standards of Isur, no. Hardly long by the standards of greybeards or old legs, but near ten years past there was a child." He drew his fingers across the surface of the bar, turning suddenly and clacking the back of his boot heel against the floor. Clack! Crack! "Born of a tryst between two lovers he knew no mother, only the road...the road and the merchant's hands that held him." He was grave, watching eyes turn to him, drawn in more by how he looked really. But that was all well and good. Minor players in their own minor seats. "In the winter he was lost in the mountains of Kalea, caught between jagged peaks and rising drifts...he, his sister, his brother, and father...all victims of foolish pride and Zulrav's wrath." He swirled his cape over Malik's head, drawing it back and frowning. "The father left to see if he could not make the distant Alvadas, but was lost and perished in the snow." Grave silence, a moment poised. "So three children were left to feed on frozen horses and wait for cruel death to pluck their souls from body, their lives from torture." He spun, slamming his hand on Oaton's table and staring at him, wide-eyed, manic. "But!" "But it would never be. A god swooped down upon the huddled three and required but one thing...but one thing for a life to be spared." He turned to look at Lusa and Marik, gravely, twisting his hands together. "One life for the price of two...terrible, horrible, monstrous...but survival boiled in the heart of the boy and he sold his sister and brother to the god in exchange for his life." Sighing, Weaver dropped to a stool and put both arms back on the bar, seemingly exhausted. "What is the price of humanity? What is the price of a soul? Would you sell your own to live? Be pauper to the god?" He raised his right hand, pointing imperiously out at the tavern, holding it on Marik. "You all serve the gods and sell your own, each and every one of you. They play the cards and the strings and we dance to them like puppets. The morale of the story is that the strongest will always have the upper hand. Would that the boy strike down the god for his arrogance, save his sister and brother! No! It was the boy who was the weaker, and so he struck...that one day he might be stronger." He leaned back his head, sighed, breathed disappointment. "Question is my fine friends, fine friends indeed...what will you do?"