"Do you speak any other tongue, apart from the Common one? A peculiar language, your man spoke before the end…"
Gremag returns to the main showroom floor, his ledger book tucked somewhere in the back room.
"If you leave this yard with that book before the guard arrives I will cut through your man and slay you where you stand. We know the truth of the matter, we have spied on your conversations. Your false, pompus words mean nothing to us. Say no more but do not move."
Thurig's face is a stoney mask of death...

Distracted with the looming threat of violence, none notice as Gilly slips past Gremag’s long legs and ducks into the shop’s back room. The room, partitioned off from the rest of the showroom, is adequately furnished with two comfortable bunks, a table and some chairs, wall shelves and pegs, a chest of drawers. A pair of lockers sits at the foot of each bed for storing personal gear. A small coffer sits high atop the center wall shelf.

Back at the Welcome Wench, Elmo looks blearily at the old wizard gesturing excitedly before him from over the top of the rim of the tankard of ale raised to his lips. After taking a long pull of drink and wiping off a foam mustache the man slur’s a think greeting to Eltrezar. "Aye, wizard! What ‘ave yeh been up to today…. An’ commin’ teh think of it, where’re yer comman… compranyns… *hic… Where’s the brave litt’un and th’ res’o’yer friens? Don’ tell me yeh misplaced ‘em inna bottom o’ some godforsaken pit again…"
He grins at this witty barb, and looks around at those sitting nearest. "I said it ‘cause the ol’ craven’s got ‘iself a reputation fer scootin’ off to save ‘is own hide whenev’r things start lookin’ a bit too ‘airy." None nearby seem to pay the drunk much attention.

Rolls
Gilly’s Elven Cloak roll - (1d6)