Chapter 26

Midway. Refuse of the weary traveller... and haven to some of the more interesting ones, perhaps. The Seeker contemplated this as he wandered into the town that dusk, having roamed in from the Kingdom of Pearl, and he was glad to be away from it. Theocracys were always trouble - dangerous at best, and run by the blissfully insane at worst.

Stopping his slow pace in the road, and looking upon the tavern to his right, the old man wore a hard expression upon his craggy features. This land was new to him, and so he leaned his walking stick against his shoulder and moved his stringy grey hair over his ears to hide them. Pulling the large, floppy hat further down his brow, he looked down at the hound at his feet, and grunted.

"Templeton," he told the dog, in a low and unpleasant voice, "we will rest here. Come-come." Issuing a long wheeze into his gloved hand, and wrapping the tattered green travelling cloak closer around him, Gryppen slowly approached the building, and opened the door, motioning for the dog to wait.

The Rabid Wombat Tavern is a battered, two-story affair. The inside smells of stale beer, although it's not an overpowering reek. The place is well-aired but not overly clean. Old wagon-wheels hang from the ceiling, piled with candles and candle drippings. A few locals are drinking up and preparing to go home to their beds. A steel-haired woman stands on one of the tables, lighting candles and cursing when she splatters wax on herself.

"Excuse me, dear woman," Gryppen says, approaching the lady and beginning to remove his gloves. His face, elderly and full of mean-looking wrinkles ("Rolled hard and put away wet", his last wife had called him), tries a polite smile and fails badly. "Are you closing for the evening?" Gryppen's voice, an unpleasant sound akin to the noise one makes when walking across dry, dead leaves, hisses this at her.

She frowns, looks slowly around, and says finally, "Oh. You're talkin' to me? No, we're not closing. C'mon in." She blows out the lit stick and crouches down, somewhat stiffly, to set it on the table. She steps back onto a chair, then down to the ground, straightening her back with a pop. She's more "worn" than "elderly" in appearance. Like Gryppen, her face is lined with wrinkles. Some are from age; some are from a life lived in the sun; many are from either laughing or scowling. The steel-grey hair is closely cropped into a very unflattering skullcap. "Got stew; got bread. Want dinner with your drink?" she asks. Her voice is as worn as she, hoarse after years of barking orders.

"Please, lady," Gryppen confirms to the woman, sitting down with creaky bones. "At your leisure. I've a dog outside," he adds, slapping his gloves down, "and would be most glad for some scraps for him, assuming you would not let him in to remain at my feet." He produces a shining foreign coin of gold, holding it up. "Is this satisfactory?"

"Yep, I'd say that's quite satisfactory. Dog's welcome, but..." She taps the second line of writing on a piece of parchment stuck on the wall. "You - or your dog - spill any sort of bodily fluid in here, you clean it up. And it better not be a growler or a biter."

Opening a door, she hollers through, "Morgan! Stew and bread, and yesterday's soupbone." All right, so yesterday's soupbone was also today's soupbone, but there was no need to mention that in front of a man paying in gold. "And what'll you be having to drink? I'm warning you, if you're not specific about it, you'll get the local stuff. Oughta make that a rule," she muses, turning back to glance at the paper on the wall.

"If you would show me a listing of your wines," the man says, taking out some spectacles, and kicking his cloth-rapped rapier behind him, "I shall ell you." Rising to move to the door slowly, Gryppen soon opens it, and with a short clucking noise, brings the dog in, snapping his fingers to keep him restrained at his feet. The dog, for it's part, seems remarkably trained, and gazes up at him with the large eyes of love only a big hound can give. Setting his pack beside him, and removing his hat (quick to adjust the hair over the ears, of course), the thin, aging man pet the dog briefly and cleaned his glasses.

"Wine... wines, wines... wines. Here we are." There are wooden clacking sounds from behind the bar, and the barkeep returns with several sets of thin wax-coated wooden tablets and an oil lamp. The names of the various vintages available are scratched into the wax. There are a wide variety of reds and whites available, from common blends for a few coppers a bottle to rarer, fine wines selling for a few gold coins per glass. A selection of cheerful, sweet fruit wines and mead are also for sale.

One tablet is labled "Exotics" and includes wine made from the rice of the Jade Empire; Imperial Purple Icewine, the Nargothian winter wine; sparkling dry wines from the Free Cities; something called "Glowwine"; something else called "Lli'ira's Kiss"; and feywine, the honeyed drink of the elves.

The kitchen door opens and another woman enters, carrying a platter in her right hand. Her left arm and most of her torso are concealed under the light, silvery-grey short cape she wears pinned over her right shoulder. The drape of the cloak suggests something is... wrong with her left side. Her hair, dark with strands of silver just appearing, is pulled back into a loose tail, revealing gently pointed ears. "Your dinner, sir."

The old man notes the ears, and with a craggy smile, speaks to her. "Thank you, dear lady," he says to her, rubbing his hands and picking up a spoon. "You are most kind." e lays a silver coin on her tray. "And I shall have a caraffe of this particular variety, here." He points to a decent white wine on the tablet not labelled "Exotics" and hands them to her. Tying his hair back now with a simple leather strap, Gryppen tasted the soup, and made sure the dog was looked after.

The half elf, called "Morgan" by the barkeep, chuckles and picks up the silver. "Thanks," she grins, amusement in her voice. She scoops up the tablets and deposits them on the bar. "Caraffe of Riverbend White, Kvelti."

"A who?"

"A pitcher? Big jug, got a handle on it?"

Grumbling, the older woman pokes under the bar. "It's downstairs. Would you go get some?"

"If a) I knew where it was and b) you bothered to label anything, I might."

"Bah." Kvelti makes a rude hand gesture which either means "You squeal like a kobold" or "Ferret-screwer" (depending on if the viewer was a northern goblin or a sand halfling) and stumps downstairs.

The half-elf hurries back over to the table. "If you're looking for a place to stay, there's a hostel in town. She'll try and convince you to stay in the stables, so I thought you should know." She gives him a smile and a quick wink, green eyes sparkling. "Can I pet your dog?" she asks, a bit wistfully, as Kvelti marches back up the stairs with the bottle of wine.

"You may certainly try," Gryppen says, putting down his spoon, and, wiping his mouth, returns the smile. "But he is not my dog, dear lady. He seemingly accepts no master, and belongs to himself." The old man looks down at the hound with a slight frown tempered with humour. "Woe be to you if you try to get between he and his bone, however. I still bear the scar."

But the dog, perhaps in defiance to his companion, looks up and accepts the patting whole-heartedly, extending his tongue happily to lick her hand. Gryppen frowns a little more, and picks up his spoon. "Hrumph.

"Thank you for your advice," he say to Morgan, his voice lower, so that the steel-haired woman does not overhear, "but I should prefer the stable, I think."

Kneeling, Morgan gives the hound a final scratch behind the ear. She shrugs her right shoulder at Gryppen's stated preference for the stable. "As you will."

Kvelti finally manages to bring over a stone jug of the white wine. "You botherin' the man while he eats?" she rumbles.

Getting up, Morgan smiles. "I suppose I don't know. Are you the sort who likes quiet or company with you meal?" she asks Gryppen.

"Company, company," Gryppen insists, looking with blinking eyes at the large pitcher, expecting instead a simple decanter. He breaks his glance and smiles at Morgan. "The more the merrier. I travel alone, save for Templeton here, and do not talk with people often. If I might by you both a drink on my bill, then please, sit and join me."

"I like him already," the barkeep declares, and sits down. "I'm Kvelti."

"And I'm Morgan. Ah, just the new ale for me, 'Velt." The barkeep gives her a hard glare but gets up to draw two tankard of foaming ale. "She hates nicknames," Morgan confides to Gryppen with a smile. "So, where are you headed? North or south?"

"North, via a western route, perhaps," Gryppen responds in his raspy-but-cheery voice. "I have come from Pearl." He motions vaguely southwards with his free hand, slurping his soup with the other hand clutching the spoon. "And my name is Gryppen. "I must say, Lady Morgan," he says to her, in a tone that sounds as though he were addressing her as a true lady of the nobility, "I have travelled through many lands, for many years, and have found few places, if any, that match your fine selection of beverages." His gnarled hand gestures again, this time in the direction of the tablets. "Though, in all my travels, I cannot say that I have ever heard of a creature called a 'wombat'. Is it an avian?" Gryppen puts down his spoon, and wipes his face, looking at her with the interested, reddened eyes of the old.

Kvelti guffaws at the reference to "Lady Morgan," but neither sees fit comment on it otherwise.

"It's not my selection of beverages, really, although I rather have something to do with it. Kvelti here's the owner and operator." The barkeep noticably inflates. "I'm... in acquisitions." She smiles wryly. "For a few more years, anyhow."

"What is a wombat, Kvelti? Aside from that awful drawing on the clapboard outside?"

"A wombat... sort of looks like a groundhog, acts like a raccoon. Lives on some of the islands in the South Seas. Usually a shy thing, but sometimes they'll just go berserk and fly at people, or so I was told by the locals." She shrugs. "Mostly, I was sick of the standard 'Color Monster Tavern or Inn'. How many Silver Unicorns, Red Dragons, and Puce Gryphons can one reasonably be expected to stomach, after all? Got no character."

"But, about the beverages," she happily dragoons the conversation back to one of her favorite topics. "That's where all the money goes. You should see the cellar: I've got magical chests to keep elven wine chilled to the exact temperature of cold spring water. Enchanted casks that'll let me transport ale from months away, without it souring. 'Course, I'm very, very interested in this beer the dwarves are dabbling in. More bitter, with that new plant added, but it keeps and keeps. I'm negotiating a tun of it now." She smiles happily and leans back on her chair, tipping two legs into the air. "It's good to be able to indulge a hobby."

"You done?" Morgan asks.

"Mostly."

Morgan returns to an even eariler point in the conversation. "I'd skip the westerly heading on that north, if I were you, until you're north of the Nargoth Empire. Bad civil war and a generally bad attitude about elves and elf-kin. Supposedly there's a treaty on in the south to start fixing that..."

"And the damn Prophecy."

"And a prophecy. But the north, so far as I've heard, still believes the governmental propaganda about elves eating babies and whatnot. Not as bad as Ehosia, though. How'd you manage that?"

"Told you," Kvelti says smugly. "It can be done. Hell, saw two elves go south a month ago. They thought they could do it. But you, noooo..."

Gryppen finishes his soup and lays down his spoon, reaching at last for the pitcher, and pouring as the women talk. Finally, as he sniffs the drink, he looks up at them.

"Prophecy?", he asks quietly.

Kvelti crosses her arms and scowls at the tabletop while Morgan hides a smile. Gryppen had been so pleasant thus far, she didn't think he'd be the type to take N'Tira's prophecy in a bad way. "Long story, but if you'll hear it...

"Long ago - longer than five hundred years, but I don't know how much longer - my mother's ancestors asked for a sign from their gods, concerning the newly arrived humans on their northern borders. This was when the twin forests in Nargoth were still one large one that stretched from the coast to the hill country. They gave their sign - a prophecy - to the priestess N'Tira Farseer. But the elven people weren't ready to hear it yet, so she carried it away from them.

"About... what, five years ago now, Kvelti? N'Tira - or her spiritform, or something, we're not sure - found our esteemed hostess and set up house. Confused the heck out of me when she started spouting an old dialect of elvish."

"Hrmph." The old woman gets up to stomp over to the bar and help herself to some ale. She drains the mug quickly and pours another as Morgan continues.

"It wasn't a good experience for her," the half-elf continues in a lower voice. "But I led her and a few companions back to my mother's home city of StarTower, hidden in the Legasha Forest, so N'Tira could deliver her prophecy. The short of it is that, for the elven way of life to continue in the face of war and infertility, they'll need to... perpetuate the culture via a race of half-elves."

Kvelti returns with her mug, drinking this one at a more reasonable rate. "Damn priests wouldn't believe it. Had to sit and sit and wait while High n' Mighty answered all these questions on elf theology over and over... and nothing to drink, dammit." She thumps the mug on the table for emphasis. The contents slosh, but nary a drop spills.

"We finally got N'Tira to go and possess one of her own descendants so we could leave. As far as I know, they're still debating whether or not it's really N'Tira, whether it's a true prophecy, if it's meant just for the elves of the Legasha or for all elves, and exactly who sent it. It really isn't the sort of thing you'd expect to hear from the Seldarine, but it has come in answer to their prayers. Me, I just gloat." Morgan half-smiles, still obviously pleased in an I-told-you-so manner.

Gryppen ponders this notion a moment, and scratches his chin, where a few extraordinarily fine hairs are located. He sips his wine, thinking, and speaks... mostly because he thinks he's supposed to.

"Interesting," he says cautiously at last. "Very interesting. No wonder the elves in this ... StarTower? No wonder they find it hard to believe. Copulating with humans to survive would no doubt be an unpleasant thought to most of them, considering." He sips his wine.

"I have much dealing with prophecy," Gryppen says, looking at the beverage he's just tasted, "and if I have learned one thing, it is that it will be fulfilled, regardless of whether or not one wants it to be, and quite often in an unexpected way. My last wife, gods hold her dear, worshipped Hanali Celanil so devoutly that she recieved visions from on high... or so she thought." He looks off a moment, suddenly even more old-looking than what he is.

"I say," he says, cheering instantly again, and looking at the glass, "what is this made from? It's certainly unique."

Morgan takes a breath to say something, but Kvelti glares her down. As a barkeep, she thought she knew when a body wanted to talk about something, when they wanted someone to ask them about it, and when they just wanted the topic to drop. Changing the subject to wine looked like a "drop" flag to her. (The fact that she'd much rather talk about wine than gods and prophets and visions has nothing to do with it at all, of course). Morgan had her doubts about her friend's supposed intuition; 'Velt had never been the intuitive type. But it was her bar.

"That, ah, that's wine," Kvelti intones sagely. "Made from grapes, it's rumored." She nods her head, keeping a poker face. "Actually," her tone lightens into something more suited for regular conversation, "Riverbend's a bit too far north for growing good wine grapes the regular way. They employ some magic to keep the vines healthy - nothing fancy, just some weather witching, I think. They say the magic affects the grapes' flavor. That or, (my own hypothesis), it's charred oak barrels they use for aging." She shrugs. "Maybe both."

"Now, the winter wines of the Nargoth Empire..."

"No. Nononono. Please, no more! Spare my ears another lecture on booze!" Morgan covers her right ear with her hand, and something shifts under her cloak, lifting towards her left, before becoming suddenly still again, tenting the fabric of the cape. Then it shifts slowly back down. Morgan bites her lower lip and looks a little embarrassed. "But, um, Ehosia?" she asks, trying not to look as self-conscious as she feels. "What were you doing there?"

Gryppen enters into a small coughing fit shortly before Morgan asks her question; he uses it as much as a disguise to hide his noticing of the shifting under Morgan's cloak as he does to clear his raspy, inflicted throat. He turns his head, covering his mouth with his fist.

"Excuse me," he apologizes, once done. "Age comes on a pace." He smiles wearily at them, and looks to Morgan. "But to answer you, Lady Morgan, I was travelling. It is, I fear, my calling to move from place to place, without stopping or staying for long."

"Oh? What calling's that?" the barkeep rumbles. "I keep tab on lots of interesting places to visit, if you're lookin' for a new road to travel."

"My calling, Lady Kvelti," the old half-elf answers, "is two-fold. I seek a man." Gryppen produces a leather-bound scroll case from the pack, located to his left beside the hound. He passes it to her, inviting her to open it. "His name is Ramen Rizchak, and is often called the 'Black Gypsy of Nozkul', or the 'Grey Gypsy', more recently. He is a swarthy man, with great flash and pomp, and nearly without peer with a blade. If you have seen him, Ladies, I would be priveledged to know so." He sips his wine. "Primarily, though, I am a Hunter of the Dead."

Kvelti takes the scroll case with some gravity and great pleasure. She'd finally learned to read in her retirement and enjoyed being able to exercise the new skill. Untying its laces she remarks, "I can live with 'good woman' but no more 'lady'-ing, all right? Hurts my ears."

Morgan rolls her eyes before asking, "Hunter of the Dead?"

"Didn't realize the dead were that hard to catch," the older human puts in drily. "Just sort of lie there and rot, in my experience. Unless you're speaking of the walking dead..."

Gryppen's chuckle at Kvelti's remarks grow louder as she continues.

"Yes, the walking dead, good woman" he assures her. "Not to mention the shambling, limping, lurking, and crawling." He sips his wine, smiling. It was not often that laughter mixed with the topic of his profession, and he was enjoying it. "I suppose it would be rather silly of me to hunt simple corpses, with their inability to escape or fight back." He scratched the dog.

The contents of the case revealed several foreign maps of unheard of places, wrapped tightly around a vellum canvas that portrayed a handsome, dark haired man with a wide smile, and much fancy jewellry. In the sketch, he wore a loose, baggy, open-chested shirt, several bandanas on his head and wrists, and a rapier or epee on his waist. At the bottom of the foppish picture lay a runish inscription.

Looking at the sketch, Kvelti whistles. "Not bad. Wish I could say I had seem him. Should he ever wander in, want I should tell him you're looking for him?" she asks, a bit slyly.

Morgan cranes her neck a little to glance at the picture, then moves to get a better look at the maps. Her brow furrows as she examines them, not recognizing the place-names. After Gryppen answer's Kvelti's question, she asks, "So... where are you from? Did you travel these lands to get here?" She indicates the maps.

"Dear Woman," Gryppen intones, "I would appreciate it if you did not tell him." He places another gold piece on the tabletop, not sliding it to her, but making his bribe clear. "It is most important that he not see me coming, though I believe he must know he is pursued."

He looks up at Moran. "I have been to all of these places, yes, Lady Morgan," he says to her. "Though I am from none of these. My home is called Greenaere, and it's distance away is somewhat indescribable. These maps, I made myself -- I have copies, should you wish them?"

Kvelti grunts in understanding. She doesn't reach for the gold piece, either, but when she clears the empty plates from the table, Gryppen finds it gone.

Morgan is still looking over the maps, fascinated. "Can you spare them? I don't know if I'll ever find my way to these places but... oh! Newest one, I suppose?" She points a white finger towards one showing a web of Ehosian ley gates. "That would be so useful if I take Kvelti's latest job offer. She wants some of the cinnamony liquer they serve down there on holidays... it's called fire-something. They call almost everything fire-something or sun-something," she says, a note of amusement in her voice.

"How bad was it?" she asks, suddenly serious again. "Traveling though Ehosia, that is. I thought it'd be a near-certain suicide trip just to get some liquer, but..." she flips her hand in Gryp's direction. "You seemed to get through there just fine."

The old man glances up at her. "People have a tendency to leave me alone," he says dryly. "I am, after all, just an aged man wandering the roads, and of no interest or harm to anyone. The hound here usually warns off those of authority who press further." He smiles with his wrinkled face as best as he is able.

"If you wish to copy them, then by all means, you may do so." He places them carefully back in the case, leaving the Ehosian map out and pushing it towards her. "It is a rare occurence to meet such kind people as yourself, Lady Morgan, and La -- 'Good Woman' Kvelti. As for these other places, well," he sighs, "travel must simply be in your blood, and a will to go to them. Perhaps, I can show you a way, before I move on."

A will to go to them? I smell magic... but talk about a coup for the tavern. Morgan briefly wonders how much Kvelti would pay for beverages from such alien lands. Probably quite a lot. And just larking about again sounded fun. She certainly had enough stashed away to pay for a jaunt or two.

"I'd be grateful if you could," she smiles at Gryppen. "Let me fetch something to copy that map onto and I'll be right back..."

After the barkeep returns from the kitchen and Morgan has her parchment, charcoal and inks, they sit in companionable silence for a bit as Morgan carefully copies the Ehosian map. She eventually lifts her green eyes to Kvelti. "I'll be taking the Ehosian job."

Kvelti swallows a mouthful of ale suddenly. "Thanks," she says, somewhat surprised. "What changed your mind?"

"Gryppen said he didn't have any problems at all. Just try and fit in and mind your own business. I can even get some walnut stain so I don't look like such a Northie. I could be a beggar or something."

Kvelti looks at her for a while. "A beggar with a large heavy bag?"

"Or something! I'm working on it." She takes a gulp of ale.

"Disguise," Gryppen intones, "is a wonderful thing. Perhaps... perhaps Lady Morgan requires assistance? I do not wish to impose, as we have just met. However, I have some means of cover, for self, as well as others. Though," he adds, "I have just come that way..."

Morgan quirks her mouth and raises an eyebrow. "Means of cover? That sounds promising. But... well..." She pauses and seems to decide something. "Can you cover this?" She sounds genuinely curious.

She shifts her cape to expose her left side. Her left arm is shorter than her right by a good six inches and as thick around as a burly blacksmith's. Her left hand, wearing an obviously special leather glove, has only two fingers and a thumb. She looks up at Gryppen, trying to gauge his reaction.

"I lost my arm years ago to a rotting disease," she explains. "But some companions," she nods to Kvelti, "and I assisted a dwarven clan in a delicate manner. This... prosthesis was my reward." She removes the glove. The hand inside is gleaming silver mithril, finely segmented like a lady paladin's gauntlet.

"I am grateful for it every day," she says, a bit softly. "But," and she shrugs apologetically, "it makes me rather more memorable."

"Hmmmph," Gryppen replies, after raising his left eyebrow for a moment. "How very interesting. Well," he sighs, "a simple illusionatory spell should suffice, if required. Most people, I think, might want to keep away from you on the road if you showed it, however -- unless these theocrats have a thing against something not exactly like themselves?"

"Whoo-AH!" Kvelti slaps the table loudly. "Oh, no. Not the Ehosians, the sweet little devils."

Morgan works her glove back on. "I suppose, in theory, the only way you have to conform to fit in is to worship their sun-god. Everyone equal under the light of day, and all that."

"But if you don't," Kvelti waggles a finger in Gryppen's general direction, "sccrrrt!" She draws the finger across her throat.

"Any foreign mage or cleric is suspected of dealing with demons," Morgan continues. "They're in open war with the elves on their north border... I've heard they think elves are really undead of some type. Just being a northerner is cause for suspicion. Anything bad happens while you're in the general vicinity and poof! you must have done it."

"Gen'rally true in your case," Kvelti mutters, good-natured troublemaking glinting in her eye.

"And yours," Morgan shoots back. "But," she looks back at Gryppen, her expression an odd mixture of calculating appraisal and respect, "if you can be discrete with casting those illusions, I expect we'd have fewer problems."

"Hmph. Watch out for the old women, then," the barkeep advises. "Some of them are supposed to have an Eye for pickin' out folks who aren't what they appear to be. Take care.

"And keep an eye out for some friends o' mine," she adds thoughtfully. "We had an incident here, not too long ago. Seemed something was withering trees deep in the Great Forest. Typical group of ne'er-do-wells got together to go see what was what. Evidence pointed to Ehosia, so off they went. Older gentleman from the Jade Empire (with an imperial circle-badge, but you didn't hear it from me), silver-haired elven woman, dark-haired elven woman who doesn't smile, and a young Ehosian. Renegade cleric of some kind, there. Apparently there's a few who think the current heirarchy isn't doing as good a job of interpreting Eho's word as they might."

"Good advice," Gryppen intones to the ladies. "When do we leave?"

"Morning?" Kvelti suggests, a touch eagerly.

"Morning is fine for me," Morgan replies, a bit slowly. She looks back to Gryppen. He sure did *look* old, but it was always tricky trying to gauge the age of anyone with elven blood. It was *more* tricky when the person in question was adept at illusion spells.

"But there's no rush, right?" she finishes. "Gryppen just got off the road, after all."

"That'd be up to him, I wager," the barkeep replies.

"Idleness is a great sin," Gryppen says, waving a finger. "As a wise man once told me, I'll sleep when I'm dead. I may be far closer to the end of my life then the beginning, but I'm not dead yet." He rose from his seat. "Morning it is, Lady Morgan. I shall be ready. In the meantime, Good Woman Kvelti, is there an establishment in where a dog and his companion can lay their weary heads?"

"Got fresh straw in the stables," Kvelti replies brightly.

Morgan levels a flat-eyed look at her. The old woman ignores it.

The half-elf coughs, "Ahem."

"Oh? What?" The barkeep is the very model of puzzled innocence.

"He'll be watching my back," Morgan says, rather pointedly.

"Oh. Hm. Well, there is spare room upstairs," she admits. "Dusty as hell, though."

"I have bedded down in worse than straw," Gryppen says quietly and politely, winking briefly at Morgan. "If you think that the room upstairs is not ready for use, Templeton and I will gladly take the stables." Gryppen picks up his pack.

"The room upstairs is fine," Morgan insists. "*I've* been staying in it. I'll stay with our gracious hostess tonight."

"Whatever," the barkeep grumps, upset at being caught out. "Go and make yerself comfortable."

"No, no" Gryppen insists to Morgan. "I shan't oust you from your room, Lady Morgan. I am so used to travel, a bed would seem foreign to me anyhow." He waves off any further pressings.