[center][b][h1]Nelf[/h1][/b][/center]

Outwardly, the harbormaster was all calm and goodwill; underneath he was a maelstrom of frustration and worry.

Gods damn that Silverclaw!  Why [i]why[/i] did he have to make such a rash move and force a crisis?!  Why not just let Kriltra do her thing, try to smooth Bork, ease him into the business?  There’d be winners all around.  But no!  The fool just [i]had[/i] to wave his blade around and show everybody who Alpha Idiot was around here.  This meant war, and now Nelthurin Sebheon was stuck in the middle.

Willing himself to smile he talked his way past the captain and sat down at the ‘head table’.  He acknowledged Bork with a nod and the abbot with a quiet ‘Your Grace’ before turning to the scribe.  [b]”I’m glad to see you are alright, Ms. Drom,”[/b] he said, with at least some sincerity.  He didn’t like or trust the clerk; he still had no idea what the other elf’s game was.  He wasn’t entirely sure about the abbot, either.  At least with the engineer you knew where you stood.  You could do business with him as long as you were careful.

For all that, though, mayhem was not something Nelthurin wanted to see in Pigeon Spit.  Especially not mayhem that would start a war.  He needed to talk to the abbot alone at some opportunity, but that was not possible at the moment, so he confined himself to making a hand-sign indicating his wish for a private meeting.  After that, he passed time discussing with the dwarf the troubles with salvaging operations.  They needed bigger boats and better cranes.  Bork nodded, wrote something down on that slate tablet of his.  That was all Silverclaw and his wife needed to do, he thought ruefully:  give the dwarf an interesting problem to work on and convince him it would be good for the town to solve it, and he could have told them that if they’d asked.

Gods damn that Silverclaw! he fumed inwardly once more.