Razz was amazed. Normally when he wanders in to the pilgrim shouting stuff, people assume he's drunk. Then again, he usually is when he's shouting stuff. But no, this time, he actually got replies, multiple ones! The sprite or pixie or whatever didn't know any healing magic, or wasn't letting on that she did at the very least, but even so, a free drink wasn't something that he was about to turn down in a hurry, especially in his current condition. A good stiff drink would really hit the spot. And not only that, the tough guy was also vying for his attention. Apparently he was some sort of a knight. I wonder if the big grumpy girl from the camp knows he's here. Good luck to him if she doesn't.
"A drink would be great, thanks. And any healing you can give would be much appreciated Mister Nihmgor, but I don't need any assistance from any temple maidens. Speaking of which, here comes the barkeep with my things." Razz was astonished that he was actually able to get the words out there. He was convinced that doing anything more that letting someone bandage him was almost out of his reach at this point, but somehow the promise of aid gave him a kind of second wind.
When the Darren delivered to him his bag of supplies, after smiling and nodding him off, he took a look inside. Christ, I need to update cache sometime soon. I'm running low on everything. Running along the bottom of the bag was a rusty iron war-hammer, dented and generally battered to hell, laying atop some boiled leather gear. On top of that lay a few cloth bandages, some rubbing alcohol, a few small silk ones for more dangerous injuries, a few bits of cotton, some lotion for burns and the like, and.... no coins. Where the hell had the coins gone?
Scrounging around in desperation, or as close to desperation as he could currently handle, he rifled through the bottom of the leather bag, looking for anything he could use as currency. All he came up with was a crumpled-up piece of parchment, with the words "I owe Razalern Timindal 2 gold coins, three silva, and nine iron. Sinceerly, Darren. Cursing under his breath, he lifted his head up, but the cowardly bar-owner has scarpered. "It seems I am also quite broke," he murmured wearily, before remembering what the pixie has said and turning his head to face her. "I'll tell you what, stranger, I thank you for the drink, and I'd be happy to tell you my story. And what a story, let me tell you. In fact, I'd say this is such a wonderful and fascinating story that it'll cost you more than an act of charity towards a poor old man like miself. What's your name, anyway?" He said, eyeing up the mysterious girl. If she even was a girl. Maybe the name would provide some clue.