After drawing near enough to the settlement to catch a glimpse of its guards, Malachi slowed up a touch, inadvertently letting Byron steal ahead. Whoever got there first concerned him not, but something had occurred to him upon seeing a couple ordinary-looking strangers. The huge man carefully removed the Heavies, one after another, and stowed them in the pouches he wore on each hip for that purpose. While the 'heroes' might not think to give the onyx-black cestus a second glance, they were not meant for the eyes of normal folk. Just the sight of them could render some people queasy, or unnerved, like something in their midst that just didn't fit in. Malachi only hoped that the townsfolk couldn't feel them.

The brief delay allowed Byron to take the initiative, and it was he who spoke for their bizarre party. Clearly quick-witted, the catman played off the lucky tidbit of information the gatekeepers let slide, working up a just-vague-enough story to explain their group. As sure as death, however, came taxes, and while Malachi carried a decent sum with him, he remained taciturn long enough for Byron to foot the bill instead. Of course, he noticed straightaway the taken-aback looks on the guards' faces, which told him that Byron just forked over a much larger sum than they ever expected. Fluctuation in currency didn't come as a surprise, but did one silver coin really spark that much of a reaction?

As the party advanced, he followed up the beastman's weak smile with a hearty one of his own, giving the gatekeepers a wink. "Don't spend it all in one place, kids!" he joked, knowing as well as they that it'd be their bosses raking in the bonus. Perhaps they'd resent him for that, but a little personality went a long way. Once within the village, Byron suggested a split-up, which suited Malachi just fine. He had, after all, never conceived of himself as 'together' with these illustrious heroes, after all. Izel suggested pairs, but after she'd ignored what he had to say completely a few moments ago, he didn't care much what she thought. With a casual wave, Malachi set off by himself. The others could pore over all the records and consult all the officials they wanted, while he got down to brass tacks.

A moment later, Malachi pushed into the local bar. The sign outside, remarkably plain and ordered, read 'Croaking Duck', and the inside lived up to the name. With deep brown and pale green wood, it was full of earthy, dark colors, yet not so stark as to be depressing. His eyes fell on the long shelves behind the counter, where multicolored candles and bottles created a singularly gorgeous display of light and color. It seemed like a place where people could come to be alone or together, to fill an evening or to regain strength. Business must be good, Malachi reflected, for a small-town establishment like this to be able to achieve any kind of atmosphere other than 'place to die'. At this hour, what patrons sat at the bar were chowed down on lunch, mostly thin sandwiches with sliced produce and cured beef. Food and drink sounded pretty good after a long rest, and conversations often followed.

Malachi treated the few curious individuals who looked his way with a broad smile. "Now that's more like it!" he exclaimed, swaggering up to the counter. "Bein' out in the wilderness for so long, I came in expectin' dirty water and smelly bread, and instead I find a bonafide country tavern. Hey, mister!" he called out as he seated himself. The portly, gray-whiskered fellow behind the counter sidled on over, put at ease by the stranger's gregarious manner. "Two plates o' the best ya got! And a tankard of your sourest beer!"