Silver Insanity

"Frithord? I never been there before... unless I have and don't remember. And I'll figure it out how you did the glass thing on my own, don't worry!" Ametrine flies for a long as he can, talking about everything and yet nothing at all - anything that suddenly moves warrants a full investigation.

There is no shortage of things for a curious young dragon to investigate (and ask questions about) on the way to Frithord. But, eventually, the two of you reach your immediate destination.

Frithord is, in adventurer parlance, a single inn town. It sits about a crossroads, just a small handful of buildings sprawled in all four directions.

The inn sports a sign depicting a pair of mermaids, and from inside comes the sound of music, and the smell of potato stew.

"Fish girls? Music!? Potatoes!! Let's go in this one, Mr. Willoughby!" Ametrime considers tugging on his suit, but instead aims his head at the good butler's back and begins pushing.

Even a friendly nudge from a dragon like Amertine is enough to unbalance a thin, short person. Willoughby staggers several steps forward, and only barely manages to keep from tipping over.

"I believe the creatures depicted on the sign are called 'mermaids', Amertine. They are not fish at all, but rather sea-dwelling mammals," Willoughby remarks, stepping carefully into the inn. He wonders whether they serve anything better than potato stew, or whether perhaps it would be better to do his own cooking.

"Mermaids? We should go say hi sometime!" Ametrine stops talking to follow Mr. Willoughby in and take in the sights.

The interior of the inn is drab, dirty, and in moderate disrepair. Off to the left is a jumble of broken tables and chairs that seems to have been crudely shoved out of the way, to make room for furniture that's still capable of serving its purpose. While this occupies nearly a third of the common room, it doesn't seem to be much of a waste of space - what's left is barely even half full. Most of the occupants seem to be relatively ordinary locals and workmen, but a few stand out.

In the shadows of the back right corner, carefully watching the entryway, is a man in a dark green hooded cloak of moderately fine weave.

In the front right corner, a group of three chatters amongst themselves. One is a heavyset blond-haired man wearing shiny plate armor; the shield slung over his back bears a lightning bolt symbol. The second is a young Ailuris maiden, her fur set with bright red ribbons, perched on a high stool and punctuating her comments with animated gestures. The third is a thin old man in brown travel-worn robes and heptagonal glasses.

A second Ailuris is perched up at the bar itself, apparently intent on purchasing unconsciousness in liquid form. His tail twitches in time with the music.

In the middle of the room, their backs to a tangled mass of discarded chairs, are the musicians. One of them seems to fit the standard foppish bard stereotype - brightly colored clothing, a jaunty hat set with a decorative feather, blue eyes, long blond hair, and a mandolin. His partner, accompanying him on the flute, seems to (aside from the flute) match the burly barbarian stereotype. He's a huge bear of a man, with shaggy brown hair that seems to blend in to the animal furs he's wearing. Set carefully on the floor next to him is a sheathed greatsword.

The barmaid, a buxom young lass, takes one look at the two newest occupants of the inn, and advances on Ametrine.
"Oh, aren't you just the cutest little thing ever!"

Ametrine bubbles at the compliment. "That you, miss! Didya hear that, Mr. Willoughby? I'm cute! We should stay here tonight!" Always a sucker for being petted, Ametrine attempts to nonchalantly enter a position on a nearby seat so he can be petted, while at the same time not appearing that he is actively soliciting it.

Willoughby fits his monocle over his weak right eye and surveys the room levelly. He then addresses the barmaid:

"Excuse me, ma'am, but could I please have a word with the innkeeper? I have a sort of proposition I'd like him to entertain."

In response to Willoughby's question, the barmaid jerks one thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the bar.

In response to Ametrine's subtle* encouragements, she is quickly seated with you on her lap, petting you and scritching you under the chin and around the base of your wings, and occasionally cooing "such a cutey, yes you are!" or other such saccharine comments.

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* There are various levels of subtlety. Ametrine has managed to, on his very first attempt, achieve the level masters of the craft refer to as "the falling brick," named for the swiftness and certainty of its effect, and the fact that those subjected to it will "never know what hit them."

Willoughby glides unobtrusively over to the bar, and carefully times his interjection to coincide with a lull in the bartender's activity.

"Ah, are you the proprietor? My name is Eton Willoughby, and I'm the head butler of the Greywind estate. I'm presently seeking information regarding one Twill, the Hrassa swordsman, and would certainly be willing to assist you in the kitchen or with the serving in exchange for your help in the matter."

"I am," he adds, without even a trace of smugness, "rather good at cooking."