La-la-la-la-la-LAAAAAA!!!! He has his sword which sheaths and he's poseable and his outfit is just sooooo cool (and has dirt painted on it) and from the profile it really looks like him!

Just as she was about to leave Peter told me that a package from Mo came. Tarra and I opened the box with my new handy-dandy dagger (courtesy of L.V.Enden Inc.) and there was another box inside. Inside of that box was a scroll written from Mo, a bag of Pirates Booty, our poor moose (that fell into Mo's green hair dye, silly moose) and...a spyglass! A real freaking spyglass! Like it opens up into four sections and the top is wrapped with leather and it works!

I'm flabbergasted at the thoughtfulness of my friends. Scuse me, I must go fall over in a heap of gratitude and joy, so to keep you entertained...

Timmy Chimneysweepson had a spectacular view. Candles glowed in the city’s windows, the night watch began its rounds, and the streetlighter set the lanterns aglow. It was just that time at dusk when the clouds are drowning within the city’s silhouettes and the horizon’s fireworks. This twilight was particularly amazing because the prismatic rain clouds had been pushed aside to let through a glorious cobalt blue sky.

Of course Timmy Chimneysweepson wasn’t watching the glories of the night, at least, not the ones that exist in the atmosphere. Effectively blocking the whole street was a swinging brawl that had been going on for the past ten minutes and Timmy had a top row seat.

That is, before the tiles gave way.

With a shout, the boy slid down the roof, slick from rain, and into a rather convenient cart of potatoes. Upon impact the potatoes that were not squashed flung themselves into the street. Quite a few landed on the fighters, causing more confusion, others rained down upon the spectators and the travelers that had been stalled by the barricade of boxers. But, more importantly, the Peterman family had free meals for a week—granted, Mrs. Peterman wasn’t a very good cook and the children were tired of eating the same meal every day, but there’s only so much onion, garlic, and potato pancakes anyone can handle—as the good food had to be used for their patrons.

And this was why, when Eibhlin arrived at The Red Wold Taproom and Inn, her bag was much lumpier than that afternoon and reeked of soggy potatoes.

The Red Wold was your standard tavern and inn. It had a hazy, sepia atmosphere, a bevy of strange characters—most of them frequent patrons—and a portly, red-faced owner behind the counter, Mr. Peterman himself. Unlike most taverns located in that Southern, sketchy district of town, Red Wold was host to the intellectuals. It could rather be described as a forum or a symposium that happened to be serving alcohol, and wasn't that nice, but could you leave that pint alone, it’s holding open my scrolls, thanks.

Eibhlin leaned on the bar and scanned the large room, or rather what she could see of it, as many of the potential philosophers preferred the pipe and thus had smoke coming out from their noses, mouths, and in one case, ears.

“Can I getcha, anything, Missie?” asked Mr. Peterman from behind the bar. “We have a few specials today.”

Thinking for a moment, Eibhlin inquired, “What are they?”

“Pea soup is on the stove as well as Cream of Lima Bean. The fried durkin and my Missus’ apple cider is a gen’ral favorite among the younger folk. Or maybe you’d like the candied chestnuts. All our drinks are listed there on the board.” He indicated a chalkboard which had math problems scrawled in its corners and along its edges (these equations happened to be the cause of the brawl outside).

“I’ll have a pint of strawberry cordial and maybe the fried durkin.”

“Very good, Miss, very good.”

As the bartender shouted the orders into the kitchen, a man in his thirties stood on a chair and began declaiming. “…and I’ll have you know that oral history is a thing of the past! No longer can we absolutely rely on the memory of man or dwarves, halflings or elves, to uphold our history, let alone our literature. We cannot let the written word fall into the hands of forgetful swine!” A few resounding “Here-here!”s and a “You tell ‘em, Lewis!” came from the party surrounding him. “To quote the renowned professor, ‘Our very society rests on the pages of beings gone before us.’ How can we disgrace them by destroying the knowledge they so carefully learned and painstakingly inscribed to further the likes of us? How can we live knowing that there are words and histories that are hidden from us?”

“Murderous bastards!” hollered a grey bearded man.

“Aye!”

“Here-here!”

“Will we allow dotards hidden in towers threaten the noble pursuit of knowledge?” the declaimer roared, his face reddening.

“No!”

“No!”

“Nay!”

“Heathen nincompoops!” shouted the old, bearded fellow, his fist in the air.

“Quiet over there!” bellowed a voice in the corner (the brain of which was soon to discover the exact pull of Urak’s gravitational pull through a combination of math, Mrs. Peterman’s Cream of Lima Bean, apple cider doubly spiked with rum, aged molasses, and saw dust).

“Send them to the fires!”

“Here-here!”

“Down with the dotards—“

“Your cordial, Miss. Anything else I can get you?”

“—Up with the scholars!” The party broke into cheers and whoops and catcalls.

Eibhlin sipped the fizzing drink and said, indicating Lewis, “Yes, an introduction to that character over there.”