• Mature • [The Gleam] Of dinosaurs and bears

[Varthakh]

18th of Ashan, 719

It was his third trial in Quacia and already the city disgusted him. Bellator seemed to find something... admirable(?) about the city, though he couldn't discern what. He didn't understand why, but Alistair also seemed unhappy here too. Perhaps it was the creep? The hostility of the people here? Why the noble hadn't just returned home to Gauthrel in that arc and a half, he didn't know. The entire atmosphere of this land reeked of decay to him, it was... wrong, unnatural. Some sort of taint infected the life here and made living difficult. Without wood, fruits, vegetables, natural fibers and various meats, every trial felt... so dull.

The people here stared at him too; the stocky, seven-foot-four Lothar, who wore nothing but animal hides. His thick brown hair was wild, almost unkempt if not for the ties that held it back in a ponytail, out of his eyes. The beard on his chin was also tied into two short 'ropes', a sort of nordic style, typical to those from the plains. Atypical to the majority of his kin, he was clad in markings from head to toe. Each scar told a different story or a different struggle, another time that he'd had to fight for his life or take the life of something else. All along his arms were gnarly scars, acid burns, lacerations, clean cuts and deep punctures that had either occurred from arrows, stabs or animal bites, talons, claws... All over his chest and gut were multiple old stab wounds and slashes, some from the maws of giant animals that couldn't quite rend him in half after one bite, other from brawls with more... 'accepted members of society'. For every animal he'd killed, they'd tried to kill him with just as much vigor. He had the scars to prove that he'd come out on top time and time again.

For his hands to be dry and rough was almost an abnormality. So many times he'd looked to his own palms, only to find the rich, crimson life force of some other living thing pooling in his hands, dripping from his knuckles and running down his arms. Prior to his revelation, he often pondered stories his mother had told him while she still breathed. Stories of monsters that prowled the plains in search of prey, anything to sink their teeth into and fill their bellies. For that reason, he'd started to see himself as something of a monster... Some evil, destructive force that sank its claws it anything that moved in his vicinity, even Alistair... Now though, he didn't believe in monsters. There were predators and there were prey. Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. That was the chaotic balance of nature, of life. An endless struggle to put one's own life before the lives of everything else, long enough to pass along one's own genetics.

Only... It wasn't so simple. There was safety in numbers, which lead to the formations of packs, tribes, clans... Communities and the like among more social animals. For that reason, he needed to broaden his horizons. No longer could he rely on just Alistair as his sole source of company, he needed his own pack, his own clan... Alistair had done just that, after all.

There he stood, alone, before the slave auction house. All sorts of odd shapes and sizes were sold here, from various criminals that had been enslaved for their wrong doings to Ithecal captured in distant lands and brought here as extra labor or personal exotic slaves. Most of the criminals suffering punishment were more likely to find themselves bought into hard labor and condemned to quarries and mines for the length of their sentence, allowing a few exceptions of course... the ithecal were more divided by subspecies, or so it seemed. The larger Thiussum and Paltharnum would more than likely be sold into slave labor while the smaller Wyvarnth could complete more intricate tasks. He wouldn't necessarily be buying anyone totrial, but it might have been a nice place to start his search.

With a sigh, the lothar tested the binding of his pelt, which hung neatly over his shoulders, then pushed the door open. Inside were rows of chairs with various different rich-looking Quacians sat around, talking, laughing before a stage. No cages in sight... Perhaps around the back? Did they walk them onto the stage with cuffs and leashes? He had little time to ponder before he caught the staring blue eyes of a woman stood near the entrance. He only made eye contact for a glance before looking away again. That was all he could manage without feeling the need to break her neck. Only one thing made him more angry than being stared at, and that was eye contact. She started speaking in some language that he didn't understand. She was speaking at him with what sounded like a stutter, but he couldn't be sure. "Common?" He asked without looking her in the eye. "O-oh, sorry sir!" She cleared her throat. "You need to wear.. um... clothes, here..." She spoke unsure. Her uncertainty was either from her lack of confidence in her tongue or the fact that Fridgar had to duck beneath the doorway and looked strong enough to make a bigger doorway if he so wished. Whatever the reason she was uncertain, he could use it to his advantage.

He reached to the string of his loincloth to take a pouch of nel that he'd carried with him on this occasion, then shook it to jingle the coins inside. "My money is good. Do you want it or not?" he asked forwardly. She'd probably been hoping that the Lothar would just accept her authority on the matter and leave... Which might explain the look of a sunken heart on her face. "...N-no can do sir, you will have to leave..." She spoke with wavering firmness. "Are you really about to deprive your master of this coin? Over a few pieces of cloth?" He asked, looking in her eyes for another few trills. He could feel it creeping up on him, the spark's anger, it's unbridled ferocity... until she looked away. Perfect. "...I'll only sit through a few showings... And you master will be richer from it, I'm sure they'll thank you when this is over..." He pushed for diplomacy again. With a sigh, she gave in and handed him some sort of sign with a handle and a number painted on. "...Just please sit in the back?" She asked. "No one will see me." He assured with a smile as he took the sign, then took his seat in the back. He knew full well that she'd probably just not wanted to have to deal with his imposing nature, but that was good enough for him.

So far, he'd kept to his word, not one of these... pompous wastes of space had noticed him yet. All of them were too caught up in their own conversations and flexing to notice the stranger sitting int he back, no matter how little clothing he was wearing. All he had to do now was wait and browse the slaves as they were displayed... Whenever the show would begin, that was.

[Loque]

Loque stood behind the barrier to the stage, idly picking at their ear before receiving a prompt thump on the nose. Rubbing it with a grumble the sleek ithecal adjust their posture-- chest forward, shoulder's back, head down. Because being a six-foot-nil, near bright orange lizard didn't make one stand out enough. The first of the owner's slaves to be shown purely for the exotic flare, and in hopes of getting someone to place at least one bid before getting to the better stock. Dressed in little more than rags, pants barely past the knees, stitched up to look nicer and clean-- for once, and a shirt with the bare minimum sleeves and deep collar. It was unclear to Loque if this was a fashion thing or just to show the pattern of their skin better, not that it mattered; they were allowed to keep the now freshly preened cap of brown feathers and spit-shined green river stone.

"First up in this lot we have a female Wyvarnth Ithecal." The auctioneer announced, signalling the tug at the rope binding around Loque's neck that snap the daydream from their mind. Thinking over their teaching as each step was made soft and quiet; 'don't stomp, you should be dainty and light. Shoulders back, chest forward, head down like a good servant.' And most importantly... The right side was kept away from the audience as much as possible, only revealed when the bidding would start-- not that it mattered. As always the lizard was quickly off in a haze, idly popping their jaws just subtly enough not to be seen or heard by the chatty wealth, more-so enough to make noise for them self to listen to. "This exotic looking female has been trained in housework, to clean and upkeep the home as well as-- an odd skill; writing. Fluent in Common but showing promise to learn anything her future master would like to teach. Ah-- a note here from her trader; She does have a strong flexibility to her tail, and can hold things for you with it. Now, one quick turn around and the bidding shall begin."

There it was, the second signal. With a nod to draw them back from idle fidgeting, Loque turn slowly, showing off each angle and keeping their tail held up off the ground, even curled some to demonstrate the mentioned trait that honestly any Wyvarnth should have. And there it was; over the right eye, a jagged scar down across the corner of the mouth, and the tell-tale veil of a blind eye as they face the crowd. The one, brilliant green eye that could still see idly scan the left of the room- likely painting faces over each gawking individual given the subtle smile that shown. Loque had been shown more than once, and never purchased due to the 'defect' of their eye, and their small size meant that heavier manual labor was less likely to be beneficial. The only saving grace, perhaps, was that the master always presented them as female, despite not knowing for sure if they truly were or not, they simply matched the description well enough, otherwise such a pretty hide would be perfect for a subject of abuse.

[Varthakh]

Sitting in a room filled with pompous, delicate humans that seemed to look down their noses at one another was just as entertaining as it sounded. Not all of them even spoke in common, so he couldn't even listen in on their stupid conversations. The men typically spoke of their land, businesses or wealth while the women there bragged about their husbands and the like. Not one of them spoke of battle, or the hunt, or even a rowdy night at the tavern. Fridgar found himself bored to tears before long and eventually passed out in the corner of the room. While napping, he dreamed of sitting at a fancy table with Alistair and Bellator, all dressed in fine suits. They'd even found his Willow Redbear form a suit, and he looked disgusting. At once, in an outrage, he flipped the table and ripped free of his noble clothes. Both Alistair and Bellator cheered for him, glad for his victory over the confines of society. He roared to the heavens, declaring himself the peak of modern fashion... Before a woman's voice snapped his eyes open.

He blinked quickly and sat up in his seat. What had she said? Something about a female Ithecal? He looked about the people in the room, some of which had noticed him at last, glaring at him down their noses, as though he were a dirty naked man in the most prestigious part of Quacia. The room was a lot more full than when he'd fallen asleep, how long had he been out?

The first slave in the queue was brought upon the stage, guided by a rope around their neck. She kept the slave to one side as they walked across the stage, then began her introduction. The bright orange and brown mess in rags was apparently a female, which made sense. It was typically the female of most species that bared more colorful furs, feathers and hides. They were apparently fluent in common and showed the ability to complete day to day tasks around the house, which was probably not the most sought after skill set, but would surely sell for a pretty Nel. That was, of course, until they turned her for the full 360 degree view... Across her right eye was a jagged, broad scar. Up until that point, Fridgar had been somewhat disinterested in the slave, but then found himself curious, leaning forward in his seat even.

The ithecal was small, wounded, female and apparently unskilled... They were the perfect material for his flock. Someone he could care for and nurture, but also someone that would never challenge his authority and obey his commands. best of all, they were bound to be cheap. Fridgar wasn't made of money, after all. There was no question, he'd purchase this salve and Alistair would barely notice the dent in the Lothar's wallet. The auctioneer declared the starting bid of fifty gold, an absolute steal. "Any bidders?" She asked. Immediately, a sign at the front row rose, baring a number thirty-four. Fridgar blinked in surprise, then looked to his own sign... A number twenty-seven was painted on. The Auctioneer almost looked just as surprised as Fridgar, but nodded. "Right, the starting bid has been taken by number thirty-four... Can I get Sixty gold nel?" She asked. Fridgar threw his sign up in fierce defiance. Fek no was he letting anyone beat him on this. "Sixty gold nel to number twenty-seven in the back there. Can I get eighty...?"

over and over, the man at the front, baring the thirty-four would lift his sign to trump Fridgar's bid, showing no sign of slowing down. They climbed to one-hundred, then one-fifty, then eventually settled on two-fourty by number thirty-four. He was getting slower, starting to think of his money... Fridgar had him on the ropes. So when the Auctioneer asked "...Can I get two-fifty...?" Fridgar lifted his sign without pause, glaring daggers at the holder of the sign. This meant war and he wasn't backing down even if it cost him two onyx. Stifling a shrug, the auctioneer spoke again "Two-fifty to number twenty-seven. Can I get Two-sixty?" She asked, then looked about the room in silence. The people looked about one another, and to mister thirty-four... but he'd withdrawn, it seemed. Fridgar's lips curled into a smile as the auctioneer lowered the next raise to two-fifty five. It all looked to be going his way...

"...Going once, going twice..."

[Loque]

"Sold, to twenty-seven in the back!" the loud clap of the stone gavel startle Loque back to reality, blinking and glancing around. Had they been completely zoned out throughout the entire thing? It seemed so... given the sharp yank at the rope pulling them from the stage-- however this time not to be lead back into the holding area. "The trader and your new slave will be waiting off to the right, thank you." The announcer nod and gesture to the side where the various traders were sitting to watch their merchandise be auctioned off. Loque now stood before the lightly fattened wealth that claimed them as property, awaiting payment before they would hand off the papers and lead of the Lotharo's new 'pet' lizard.

Seeming far more relaxed off stage, Loque's posture was casual; slightly slumped with their tail resting rather than carried high, and their head dipped slightly-- again with the popping jaws. "Quit fidgeting-- your new master is here." The man gave a hushed bark and the crone holding the lead look back at them. Immediately Loque snapped their maw shut tight, eyeing the crone warily, not wanting to be whacked on the nose again. It was odd, this whole time was spent mostly in a haze waiting until it was over-- now it made some sense as to why it had lasted so long... and why that man in the front row that kept waving the weird sign kept such a strange smile. Reaching up slowly, Loque fix the feather headpiece, checking that the thin twine bindings still kept it tied to the scutes on the back of their head before smoothing out the feathers.

One green eye scan the crowd-- now busy bidding on the next slave-- before setting on the absolute monster of a man. Easily a foot or more taller than the lithe ithecal and wearing-- pelts? A new gleam took to their eye as suddenly their whole posture change, lighting up with life that had rarely been seen by the trader-- or especially the crone. It was that same, child-like light that sparked when something had their interest, a game or shiny new toy. Loque had a feeling that they wouldn't be boring like the crone or trader, after all-- this man was bold enough to waltz about in near nothing! The thought alone even made the ithecal's tail return to its upward coil, a new adventure and finally being able to waltz about without being fussed at to keep the rags they had in check. This sudden excitement seemed beyond puzzling to the trader, but no less he grin, feeling this would only work to seal the deal for good.

[Varthakh]

As the stone mallet met the stand, Fridgar had to choke back his victory cheer. He wanted nothing more than to bellow a hearty war cry and shove his victory down the throat of number thirty-four, but reserved himself to save face. He scanned the front row with a shit eating grin, before spying the rather angry looking, plump man glaring at him. The Lothar simply waved and waggled his eyebrows in return, doing his best to rile the human up. With his one glance, he noticed that the man had been sitting alone, no spouse to occupy the seats either side of him. What had he wanted the slave for? His excitement died down a little as he saw his winnings walked from the stage by the leash and taken over to the side for him to collect. What was he supposed to do? Could he go and collect them now or did he have to wait until the end of the auction? For someone that had spent five times the original asking price for a slave, he seemed quite happy over there in his corner.

The next slave was quite quickly brought up on stage, a rather stocky looking human, bald and covered in tattoos. Fridgar could quite easily imagine that he'd been enslaved for some crime or other. He wasn't interested. With a shrug, the monster rose to his feet and adjusted the pelt that lay draped over his shoulders before making his way to the main aisle of chairs. The auctioneer stopped mid-sentence as she noticed him, but continued speaking with a shake of her head. Had she only now realized that number twenty-seven was actually naked? He didn't care, he was just happy to have won, as though it were a game.

He stopped by the entrance to ask the girl from earlier if he was allowed to go and collect his slave. "...Yes... Please be quick, before anyone else sees you..." She asked with a look that you'd expect to see on a dog that's awaiting punishment. Fridgar nodded, then rolled his shoulders. It was time to make a good impression of himself. Meanwhile, wealthier members of the room bid on the stocky slave, likely private mine owners or the like... Maybe even managers of the fighting pits? Perhaps he would end up fighting this man in the ring one trial, he looked forward to it. After popping the trapped air in his neck, the Lothar made his way over to the right side of the room where the bright orange lizard stood, a rope tied around her neck. Rope, as he understood it, was quite the luxury item in Quacia, with no plant fibers to twine, it wasn't something you saw very often. This felt so fancy!

As he reached the two, towering far above both their heights, he collected the pouch of coin from his loincloth, then carefully counted each and every individual piece of gold coin that he owed. "Good evening, sir!" The crone spoke, to which Fridgar raised his finger to hush her. The process of counting was a delicate one, he could not be disturbed. What if he lost count because of her? He would not be pleased. Then, caught in his train of thought, he realized that he'd been picking pieces of gold from his pouch without counting for perhaps ten trills... The Lothar growled audibly, then put the coins back in the pouch and began to count all over again. The woman interrupted him again and pat his arm. "We'll do the counting for you sir, why don't you just get acquainted with your slave for a bit or two?" She offered, then gently removed the Lothar of his purse. He stared at his empty hands for a long trill or three before slowly looking to her with a furrowed brow. Had she really just interrupted his counting again, and taken his gold to boot?

Instead, he found her placing the Ithecal's rope in his hand, which he clenched tightly with a firm, clawed iron grip. She thankfully walked off with his gold before he could consider attacking her, and he was left with the orange one for a little while longer. The lothar sighed heavily through his nose and straightened up his posture as he followed the length of rope with his light brown/black eyes, no white could be seen beyond his iris. He opened his mouth to speak, baring rows of sharp teeth, the kind you'd see on a carnivore, used for ripping up meat. "Is she always this rude to her customers?" He asked with an angry eye.

[Loque]

Loque watch the exchange with absent curiosity-- though it was now obvious that the 'rope' was just made from old scrap cloth that couldn't even be worn by the slaves. As the crone walk off the small ithecal had to actually clasp a hand to their muzzle at Fridgar's question, simply nodding quickly and trying desperately not to laugh. Finally! Someone else who thought the old betty was nothing more than a nag!

It was weird having to look up to see someone, though Loque quickly cover their snout and look back down, not wanting to be hit again. 'No eye contact. you are a slave, not an equal. Ithecal are beasts, pets.' the crone's words echo in their mind. However the idle hand protecting their snout fell as they look him over curiously. "Loque happy to be of service." A quick bow of their head, remembering some inkling of the teachings the old crone all but quite literally beat into them. Seeing how he'd reacted to her gave the wyvarnth a glimmer of hope that this would truly be a new adventure-- certainly far better than the droning trials of teaching and getting hit upside the nose. There was something odd about this man-- not just him being near stark bare in a room full of wealth, but he seemed more... animalistic than anything.

It was in that moment that the lizard caught themselves staring at the pelts the man wore, and idly working at the feathered cap atop their own head, trying to fluff it up more. "Wear skins like me, clothes too scratchy?" tilting their head to glance up again, having to show more of the left of their face in order to see the man's face better. For such a 'well trained' ithecal, they sure seemed to forget that training in favor of curiosity rather often.

[Varthakh]

The slave's reaction to his rhetorical question said it all; She was a shit! Even if the orange one didn't want to admit it, they didn't defend their trader. The Lothar let loose his tension in a sharp exhale from his nose, there was no use in getting worked up over having his money taken from him, or being forced to count over and over. He smirked a little, then shook his head before looking to the Ithecal a glance, where their eyes met... The Slave looked away promptly, for which the Lothar was grateful. It wasn't even enough of a glance to kick his spark into gear, which was nice for a change. For a moment or two, he almost felt the need to groom the smaller orange lizard, as though they were an animal like him. Something about having them dressed in rags and tied with a crudely fashioned rope made the Ithecal feel... So much less than human. He had to remind himself that this was a real, living person with feelings and sentience. Quacia was already getting to him, it seemed.

Fridgar nodded in response to the Ithecal's statement, then spoke a greeting of his own. "Your name is Loque, huh?" he asked out loud, doing his best to pronounce the slave's name properly. Ilaren help him if ever he had to spell it. "I am Fridgar, but you can call me whatever you like within reason." Just calling himself by that name felt so alien to him now; Fridgar was an Identity he didn't fully associate with anymore. "I have something to ask of you, however. Please refrain from looking me in the eye unless I tell you otherwise, Understood?" Even though this Ithecal was technically his property now, he felt rude to ask something like that of them. Even if it was more for their own safety, he didn't pride himself on asserting his will over the weak. Whether they asked why or not, Fridgar explained simply with "I have intimacy issues." He didn't seem to question the Ithecal's curiosity, or the fact that they asked questions despite their assumed role in this relationship, or what was meant to be lack thereof.

So, small talk ensued. The Lothar didn't see anything wrong with speaking to the slave as though they were an equal. They seemed to share a comfortable primal air to him, something more untamed and wild than boxed up and rigid like the rest of the city. It was something he found comfortable and could openly express himself with the Ithecal. Though he did notice something, they spoke common... But it was far from fluent or proper. He'd been cheated! Too late to turn back now, he already liked this one. He rolled his shoulders in a shrug and gave another nasal exhale at the Ithecal's question. "Clothes are just expensive and break easy, I gave up on them arcs ago." He caught the Ithecal eyeing his pelts with a turn of their head, almost like a pigeon would. This was obviously due to their blindside, but it worked to further cement the fact in his head that the Ithecal was an individual that needed caring for. "And to be honest..." He started again while looking around the room before quieting his tone. "...I ...Find clothes restricting and uncomfortable, especially uhh... Yeah." He spoke through a quiet mumble, little more than a whisper. "Feel free to get out of those uhh... 'Scratchy' rags as soon as we're out of here." he offered.

"The pelt is a trophy from a monster in Gauthrel. A Feldorei, massive, bat-like thing with bog-ugly jaws. I have its skull back home, I can show you later if you like." The pelt was a dark shade of violet blue and flowed all the way down his back and dragged along the floor behind him some. Whatever beast it belonged to was far larger than him. If anyone beside the scar-clad giant stood before Loque had claimed to have killed it in single combat, it would have easily been dismissed as hogwash. "Go ahead, feel it if you want." He offered just as the rude-ass-bitch returned with his remaining money. "Sorry for the wait, sir. You're good to go! Feel free to stay and purchase more slaves if that's something you're interested in." She offered. he had half a mind to smack her upside the head for lying about Loque's common, but held back on the terms that his slave might have been punished for speaking informally. "Thank you so much." The giant spoke with a very blatantly forced smile and a passive-aggressive, condescending tilt of his head. "I know how to count you know, I'm very capable of counting my own gold." he spoke with a curl of his nose before stowing his bag of gold.

"Come, Loque." he spoke as he turned, then gently pulled on her rope. He heard the woman mutter something in Vahanic behind him as he walked, didn't put it past her not to flip him off, either. He didn't care, she was a bitch. As he passed by the front entrance, he returned his number twenty-seven sign and offered a respectful nod to the girl before continuing his happy stride out of there and into the sunny, cobbled street.

[Loque]

With a bow of their head Loque settle on calling the new owner 'master'-- as they had been taught to. "That will be no problem, Master, it is awkward to have to look up." the sudden change in speech pattern suggested the ithecal did indeed speak common rather well, but for one reason or other chose to simplify it akin to slang when speaking informally; at least when the crone wasn't hounding over them. A pause, blinking for a moment at the words that follow- 'intimacy issues'? This brought another tilt to the wyvarnth's head as they could only wonder what the man had meant.

A grin sprawl across that toothy maw at the talk of clothing being damn near pointless. Nodding in agreement, now their tail had even begun to sway slightly side to side, unbalancing its loose coil and making them seem almost childlike. No need for excessive clothing? Someone who agrees it only gets in the way? Slave or not; Loque had a good feeling about this man. Wait... a monster pelt? The thing had to be massive! And these humans had the nerve to glare at him for showing such a trophy?! Loque would scoff if they'd known they wouldn't get whapped on the nose for it! The invitation to feel such a beast's pelt all but made the ithecal jump at the opportunity-- only to freeze and draw back quickly on seeing the crone's return.

The tug at the rope was met with no resistance, instead Loque seemed to all but trot along behind like a happy dog more than a slave being condemned to a life of servitude. A grand new adventure lay before them, that was for sure, and this man was beyond the perfect figure to follow for it.

[Alistair]

Loque

Knowledges
Discipline: Pay attention or get hit
Endurance: Standing still for extended periods of time
Discipline: Don't look at your superiors in the eye, especially if asked not to.
Discipline: Don't jump at the opportunity to do something if you could be reprimanded for it
Discipline: Don't talk bad about the person who can hit you
Etiquette: Understanding slaves are not equal
Etiquette: Give your name when being introduced
Etiquette: Fidgeting is not polite

Fridgar: Hates clothes!
Fridgar: Kills monsters!
Fridgar: Don't look in the eye. Don't.
Fridgar: Master
Fridgar: Hates the crone too
Fridgar: issofreakingcool
Fridgar: Says its ok to be skyclad
Fridgar: Do not anger.
Fridgar: Can count his own gold
Fridgar: Has skulls! And trophies!

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A
Renown: +5

Points 15

Fridgar

Knowledges
Detection: Noticing insecurity.
Detection: Noting an Ithecal's scars.
Detection: The change of pace when someone is reconsidering bidding.
Detection: When a slave doesn't quite act like a slave.
Detection: Remembering details of a sale and then noticing when they don't match the product.
Discipline: Reserving the urge to backhand someone that has been rude to you.
Discipline: Reserving the urge to gloat your victory
Persuasion: Taking advantage of when someone doesn't want to fight you to get what you want.

Loque: A female Wyvarnth Ithecal
Loque: Bright orange scales and brown spots.
Loque: Has a blind eye and a scar to boot.
Loque: Your slave.
Loque: Seems unkempt and wild, like you.
Loque: Hates clothes.
Loque: Has a lot in common with you.
Loque: Curious and eager.
Loque: Excited to serve you.

Loot: +1 Unskilled Slave, -5 Wealth Points
Injuries: N/A
Renown: +5

Points 15

Comments: Put some clothes on! I'm calling the Theocratum! Also, are you sure Fridgar knows how to count? I don't remember Alistair teaching him that.

Also, poor little Loque. You're in for a wild ride.

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