[color=silver]Ardour had arrived to the tavern many an hour ago. 

In no time at all, he'd lost sense of time among the merry folk. The tiefling had always thought taverns to be intriguing; ale flowed, people mingled, and information was exchanged with far less care than was wise. It was true that in many of the taverns he'd visited in his life, his kind was hardly present - or [i]liked[/i], for that matter. But with enough people, music and merrymaking, it was not impossible to become just one face in a hundred. And the more alcohol was involved, the more open people were to entertain even a supposed descendant of a demon.

He must've sat at a dozen tables by now. Some for a mere second before he'd been shooed away, some for so long that he could've sworn the morrow had come.

This table was, without a shadow of a doubt, a case of the latter.

A middle aged dwarf had climbed atop the table with a pint of mead in each hand. He waved them around with reckless abandon, splashing precious alcohol onto everything and everyone not quick enough to duck away. By now, Ardour himself had gotten his fair share of the liquid [[url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/rolls/14039]Acrobatics: 13[/url]] on his hair and clothes. 

What's worse, try as he might have, he'd been unsuccessful in starting a conversation with anyone else at the table. Every time someone finally opened their mouth, the old dwarf saw fit to interject with a bout of drunken ramble. Ardour swore, if the man hadn't looked old and battleworn enough to have seen a thing or two of worth, the monk would've likely left long ago. As things were, he was holding out hope for at least one tale worth the wait. 

Oh well. At least he needed to do nothing to get information out of this man; the dwarf was practically [i]vomiting [/i]out stories, be that most were as dull as they were fake. Come to think of it, many of the tales he'd heard tonight had been of similar worth.

He [i]had [/i]heard a few rumours that had piqued his interest enough to commit them to memory, but nothing he could have put an immediate price on. Pirates, knights, dragons - he never did get the chance to ask for more details on Halaster's apprentices, before the man's attention had been irredeemably claimed by another. He doubted he could find the half-orc again to ask for more details, either - the tavern had long since devoured any trace of him.

It occurred to him that the drunken dwarf was still talking. 

"Ye sure love to run yer mouth, lad!" the man hollered at him as if trying to make the gods themselves hear. Considering he was not smitten on the spot, Ardour presumed they had not.

"Do I now?" Ardour wasn't sure if he could feign either surprise or remorse well enough, but it didn't seem to make any matter. The dwarf had no ears for anyone else's voice but his own.

"Aye, goin' on and on and on and on... must love the sound of yer own voice, huh? Knew someone else like ye once, kiddo. 'E got his tongue cut right off, I tell ye! Messed with 'em wrong folk down in the Undermountain... what was they called? Clan o'... [i]Many Tongues[/i], aye, them's was it! Nasty lot, I hear."

"[i]Terrifying[/i]," the monk mumbled absentmindedly, remembering the name and the threat they posed, disregarding the rest. 

"There ya go, blatherin' on again! Your lot's got no manners. Am I right lads?!" 

One of the man's companions shouted in enthusiastic agreement. Another had passed out long ago. The rest seemed as fed up with the drunken dwarf as Ardour did.

"Indeed," he grabbed his pint before the drunken elf next to him could steal a sip. "Well then, my pardons, it is about time I take my rambles elsewhere...."

He stood up and excused himself with a small bow, the dwarf's roaring laughter a tailwind that pushed him to walk away faster.

The Clan of Many Tongues that ought not be crossed... he supposed it would do for his final piece of information for the night. Perhaps there would've been more to be learnt from the man, but at a cost far greater than he could bear. He could already feel an incoming headache pound at his temple.

Besides, it seemed as though the rest of the group had arrived by now. A ragtag bunch of misfits they were, sticking out among the common crowd like misshapen thumbs. Merfolk, animals, [i]freaks[/i].

Just like him, in other words. No wonder Ardour felt kinship towards them. 

He slid to a free seat in the table just in time to hear the latter half of Lin's joke. Whether purely out of courtesy or not, he chuckled.

"A monk that does not drink?" he repeated, bemused. "Why, I've never heard of such a thing. They all drink, dear girl, they're just less like to get caught."

He took a sip of his ale - the last sip, he noted duly, and pushed the empty container away. He smiled. 

"Suppose [i]I[/i] got caught."[/color]