Sherborne finds part of this amusing but tries to remain vigilant and alert in the background as this seems like it could go south at any time.

Silverglade seats himself. "So tell me," has says to the new group while looking around, "when are we going to move to more - luxurious - surroundings?"
This message was last edited by the player at 20:52, Tue 15 May 2018.

Albricht groaned, his fear confirmed. "Well, this oughta be interesting..."

Sighing, the old dwarf looked around the room and tried to locate anyone dicing or otherwise preparing to lose their coin.

"I've heard that Zargon provides very luxurious delights," the one in the frog mask replies, continuing to look about quickly, like a bird.

"Oh, that does sound like fun!" the one who brought Silverglade to this group declares, clapping her hands for joy.

"No, no, his followers are such brutes," the high falsetto voice objects.

The grumpy one simply says, "Wilbur."
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:24, Thu 17 May 2018.

"Tell me more of Zargon's luxurious delights," says Silverglade. The potential for loot puts a gleam in his eyes.

Vsaati decided to go in search of a drink - some sort of wine preferably, but in truth almost anything alcoholic would do.  She'd had a few rough spots recently, between charming foxes, acid baths and shape-shifters.  A little calm-me-down seemed more than called for.

"Anyone else for a glass?" she asked the others over her shoulder, before threading her way off through the strangely distracted crowd of masks.

"Oh, they're said to be wonderful!" the frog-masked one declares, suddenly more animated than before.  "They are only for the faithful, mostly, but on high holy days some are distributed to the rest of the people."  At this, the remainder of the small group - except for the grumpy one - turn to listen.  "I've heard from those who have taken the delights on and off since I was very small.  They're simply delicious."

"That sounds simply wonderful," says Silverglade as he stands back up. "Let's go see Zargon now. And I'm sure you wouldn't mind if my friends came with us, would you?"

Roak listens to all this quietly, standing nearby trying to look unobtrusive as only a halfling can.

Voran, meanwhile, heads to the free-standing bar and waves at a bartender.

"Guhhh... eh? Has yer skull-filler been melted while we weren't paying attention? We just got here Silverglade... Let's get something chewy in our stomachs and our whistles sufficiently whetted... and maybe some coin won, perhaps we get our weapons sharpened, some bolts purchased... and THEN let's go with your friends to kick the anthill?" Albricht muttered to the elf.

"Yes, perhaps wait some moments or more.  Who knows what we might find out in a place like this." Sherborne nods at the dwarf and smirks at his mutterings.
This message had punctuation tweaked by the player at 00:56, Fri 18 May 2018.

“Let me take a wild guess: Sargon’s delights cost money.  Lots of it.  Did I guess right?  Do I get a prize?”

The old water-finder stumped over to a table and sat down wearily. "Go ahead without me if you must, I'm going to rest my bones a bit."

He looked around for some bar wench to summon, and though no stranger to establishments such as these, he did feel a bit out of his element. Albricht's sociability was intermittent and infrequent. He'd spent entire decades wandering the sandy sea and wastes of the desert in search for water before returning to any semblance of civilization. Then again, there were times when he'd essentially taken up residence at a gambling table (more of a large, polished slab of petrified wood from the old days when forests covered this forsaken land) causing even the 'regulars' to think he'd put down roots.

The aged eyes scanned the setting, seeking out any other dwarves or folks without silly masks. He watched what they ate and drank and then, once he was able to locate someone to take his order, requested that which the more sane of the patrons were consuming...

"... and a pitcher of cold water please." he added.

He motioned to his companions to join him - or not - and then pulled out the cards and dice and other gambling paraphernalia he'd managed to surreptitiously acquire in the dusty halls far above them.

The frog-masked individual replies to Silverglade, "Oh, I don't think they're handing them out right now, but you're welcome to go ask.  If you do, would you let me know?  They're terribly grumpy most of the time, and I'd like to be able to set up some wagers on your survival."  The others in the small group that have shown any level of attention for the conversation slowly nod at this.

A bartender wearing a mask of a somewhat bored woman's face asks Elder Voran what he'd like to drink and swiftly brings a cup of moderately-good wine, regardless of what the cleric actually ordered.  He asks a single silver piece for the drink.

Albricht's drink comes, accompanied by a dripping pitcher.  The pitcher is revealed, on further inspection, to contain somewhat weak beer, and to not be particularly cold.  The server seems to forget about payment and wanders off somewhat vaguely.

The dwarf bit off a spicy dwarven retort. "I think I might rather be back in the pyramid," he muttered into his whiskers, for this wasn't at all what he'd been envisioning when he lobbied to make this trip to the Underground City.

"Tell us frog-man," the dwarf inquired of the masked man, "Is this the only tavern in the city?"

His ears wiggled upon hearing the word 'wager'. The gears began cranking inside the sun-baked cranium. "There's some possibility there Silverglade... I could probably organize the betting if you're up to the challenge!" He said this barely masking his excitement at the prospect of betting on another elf's survival.

The frog-masked man looks somewhat vaguely in Albricht's direction.  After an uncomfortable pause, he says, "At the moment.  Sometimes there is another drinking house, but this is the only one today."  At that, the man wanders slowly toward the other bar and the other bartender.

In the lull, a woman bursts through the front doors, calling out, "Help! They've got Timmy!" and promptly collapses.  No one seems to take any notice of this.

“Timmy?  Did you say Timmy?  Oh no, not Timmy!  Summon all the dragons and greater devils in the realm, lest one hair on his sacred head be harmed!”

Elboc has a sip of water.

“Oh very well, tell us who is this Timmy.”

Voran looks at the cup and smiles politely. He fishes out a gold coin and hands it to the bartender. He then turns, takes a sip of the wine, and surveys the people around him.

Roak, meanwhile, moves up to the woman who has collapsed by the door. He bends down and checks to see if she is still conscious.

Talk of possibly dying has cooled Silverglade's interest in the conversation. "If you'll excuse me," he says, "I'll go help save Timmy."

Not having anything better to do Sherborne thinks, he wanders over to the collapsed woman to see if she is still alive at least.

Sherborne and Roak both find that the woman has a heavy bruise spreading on her left temple, but does seem to be breathing.  Otherwise, she appears to be quite unconscious.

One or two of the other patrons seem to have noticed, but most pay her no mind.  None of them approach.

Having finally found someone who was willing to sell her a glass of wine, Vsaati sipped it carefully as she gracefully swooped through the crowd and returned to where a good number of the group were paying attention to a woman stretched out on the floor.

"What's all this, then?" she asked, wondering what was going on.  "Someone in distress?"

Voran sees this as well and heads over. He tries to revive the unconscious woman, using his skill in chirurgery.