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Fyrstir pressed his lips together thinly at the snicker from his companion, though he conceded that it was warranted. He had always been a rather unimpressive figure, but perhaps that was one of his greatest advantages. How grateful he was for the magic that had kept him from straying into the many graves with his name already etched upon them. Then, it was not an obvious proficiency, a tattered spellbook and a mangled hand were hardly marks of raw power. Opening his mouth to respond, he was struck with a realization that Edlin had turned away from his water and his attention was stolen by something behind them.

A crawling sensation built in his single gloved hand, buzzing and flickering peculiarly before it was gone at the other man's next words. Torazel. Not a name he had heard recently, if ever. Fyrstir arched an eyebrow, then. "Perhaps both, but not at the same time." He said dryly, filing away the odd exchange in the back of his mind as he played with the edge of his left glove. "Mind if I'm a little lost?"

Fallow's music dropped to strumming as he balanced the lute in the crook of his arm to take a drink; he was practiced at this. He found it quite amusing.
He chose now to butt into the conversation that wasn't his and that he had no place butting into: "Some women, sirs, have more similarities to angels than just that, wouldn't you say?" He definitely wasn't local, but his storytelling voice was a blend of accents that would be impossible to place. He was human, by the looks of it, though.

Lupus listened silently as he sat at the bar. He was unnaturally still for the longest time. Then he finally took a drink of the ale, which he payed for in gold coins. As his head went back some to down the drink, some go his wife hair escaped from under the hood once more. Then as he lowered his hand a flash of red could be seen from his glowing eyes.

((Ooooh, I see thanks for clearing that up! ))

"I have a... guardian angel, who mostly follows me around everywhere. I've known him since childhood." He took a sip. "Don't worry about him, I'm the only one I should be worried about." In truth, he and his enemies would be worried for him, but held his tongue in case of inciting anxiety in the half-elf.

Edlin turned to the bard, after almost feeling his presence inching closer (he was unsure how he felt this, even after all his time on the road). He laughed somewhat at the bard's remark. "That makes two of us, dear bard. Although, I reckon you can trust angels a bit more than women." He said smiling. "Not to say women are untrustworthy, I'm just saying I can rely on heavenly beings more so than women."

The nearby trio was talking about women ... the Hanged Man listened carefully, waiting for a tell.

He finished off his brandy and gazed longingly into the empty cup. Raziel flashing gold--gold! did the man want to be robbed!?--made him check his pouch for money ... surely he had enough for one more. His hand, however, refused to cooperate. It spasmed, spilling coins of various mints and nationalities onto the bartop. A ceramic Daoin isiwa, coppers of many sizes, two purplish ovals with seven-headed storks ... and a few more, though overall it didn't amount to much.

Grumbling, he scooped the coins back into the purse as best he could. One piece, a small silver disk, rolled down the counter away from him towards Edlin, Yarrow, and Fyrstir. He didn't seem to notice.

"Another," he said, sliding his cup and a couple of the coppers across the bar. "Perhaps if you've aught ... ah, aught cheaper." The barkeep filled the cup with mysterious liquid from a clay jug. It was dark, maybe reddish, had bits of sediment floating in it, and smelled like rancid vinegar ... but it was good enough for the Hanged Man. He recalled the wretched undercity of Dhamkashu, how every night he had downed himself in salai twice as putrid as this ... as this ... he took a sip. This wine, he decided. His nose wrinkled--maybe the salai hadn't been so bad, after all.

((Ah, no problem, I know my phrasing can be awkward at times ))

He was left to think on Edlin's explanation that only really left him with more questions than answers. Talk of angels left a dark pit in his stomach ... a lot of good they had done for him and Oska. The half-elf collected his thoughts and tucked them into the back of his mind, casually taking a sip of the water that recklessly sloshed about his cup.

Fyrstir was given little to wonder about the sudden halt to the music, but was quickly greeted with new company of the bard who had previously been strumming. Fallow seemed as foreign as the pair, and just as interesting. His voice reminded the wizard of something, but he was sure it was simply the cadence that bards often possessed.

He took an even breath and smiled, albeit lacking some conviction, "Women and angels are a story of their own, but I figure men are the least trustworthy... Especially those you meet in a tavern--" a dull sound, that akin to a pin drop drew his ear (An elven trait, one he reckoned got him in more trouble than good.) He paused, forgetting his train of thought as quickly as he had been able to voice it.

"I'm afraid men and women have been more helpful to me than angels. I can't seem to recall ever meeting the latter."
The falling of coins drew his attention. He watched, eyes wide, as the coin rolled towards him. He stopped it with his finger, then pushed it back along the face of the table.
Apparently still eager to intrude into someone else's personal space, he smiled and asked, "You alright there, friend?" He settled in between his speaking and storytelling voices, some of the enunciation and cadence dropping away.

"Angels, as well as mortals, aren't all they are cut out to be."
Lupus finally spoke up in his deep voice, not looking away from the point on the wall before him. He took another drink, and sat his mug back down with a thud.

The Hanged Man didn't realize at first that Fallow was talking to him. His expression was vacant as he stared down into his putrid drink. Finally he lifted his chin, blinked a few times, and regarded the curious bard. The black scar across the fellow's throat was of particular interest. "Hm? Oh, ah, f-forgive me, master." His voice didn't seem to fit his appearance. It was not deep nor sonorous, and it bore a faint quaver. "T'is easy for an old axe like myself to get sucked into his memories." He tried to pick up the dainty piece of silver, but his aching hand and thick gloves made it quite a trial.

(Hello! Mind if I join? I understand this takes place in some sort of tavern, can I just take off running from there?)