Croup looked a little affronted at the implication he was like this slimy man - but none the less he thought better that side of the fence than the violent side.

Well kind Slime.... eeeerrrrr ... sorry Sir, as my good friend here has said, we would be very happy to trade, we have lots of ....errrrmmm ... things??!! Croup trails off slightly lost for words

Shhhlr'aSHOOSH ponders for a moment, tentacles braiding and unbraiding themselves, forming impossible knots and slipping out of them with ease. At last, it seems to come to a conclusion. Its tentacles untangle and flap as it speaks.

"That ishh... a querrshhtion. I mushht think. We drrn't shtruggle frr protercshunn, becaushhe of... hish shervishesh."

The Aberrant Ambassador grins and flexes its claws at this, and the Braided Cephalopod looks away, an expression that could be read as pique crossing its slimy face.

"Brrt it growshh... borrngg. Thrr daysh passhh, on arnnd onn. Arnnd I tirre of myshhelial shtorieshh arnnd poemshh." At this, the fellow with the blemmigan companion makes a face from behind Shhlr'aSHOOSH, his pride definitely injured by this comment. "I wissh frr shomthingg new to rread. Shhomethingg to passh thrr tirmme. Crnn you herllp?"

It pauses again.

"Of courshhe, money ishh alwayshh appreshiaterrd"

“If may say, there are other uses for muscle beyond safety.” He offered, unlikely as it was. If the odd group was in New Newgate for enough time to have a protector and feel safe with their protection, then they probably had no enemies. At least not anymore. “Perhaps you want a someone taught a lesson or a favor of the like.” Damien mentioned while thinking where to find any books. If not, sadly the only books that I have rest in my memories.” He admitted, casting his eyes upon Croup and then the rest of their allies. “I could tell you the histories, of course, but this wouldn’t help when we return to our cells.” He doubted any of the other four had a single book, let alone one that the Ambassador had not read. Coin it was. “My compatriots, though, may have something in this sense. Even if they don’t, together we are more likely to meet your price in money.”

The warlock waves at the distant three, calling for them to approach. By now he was quite sure their presence wouldn’t be taken as a sign of aggressiveness, an offense. How brilliant it would be if one of you, any of you, had a damn book. It would serve them better than any damn pistol.  

Ezra strolls across the yard to join Damien, Croup, and the odd assortment that they are talking to.

He tries to note how the conversation between the two groups is being received by other crews, if anyone is giving them looks, or just ignoring them.

The Braided Cephalopod nods. "Iff you ffind shomethirngg, or shomeorne who carnn provirrde, drrn't hershhitarte trr lerrt me knoww"

Ezra notes the usual side-eyes that newcomers are given, but nothing out of the ordinary. A few unnerved glances at the bizarre group, but you can't tell if that's because you're talking to them or if that's just the norm.

Croup ponders for a moment -"Does it have to be a book in the literal sense or would someone who could tell a good story be a more interesting prospect - if say you borrowed him for a few days?

Shhhlr'aSHOOSH makes an expression that one might call raising an eyebrow, if it had eyebrows. At the very least, the slimy flesh over one watery eye raises slightly.

"Werll... it derpendshh on thrr shtoryy... I woulrd preferrr shomethirngg wrrittenn, but I arm openn to arlternativeshh."

(So, what's the party's plan now? Feel free to ask me anything about the area if you're not sure)

He waits as his compatriots approach and Croup suggest the idea he had previously given up on, that of telling the Ambassador a tale rather than giving a written one. Ezra is the first to arrival and brings with him an opportunity for the warlock to make. albeit indirectly, new and hopefully not costly questions.

“Allow me to introduce our disjointed little group.” Damien says to the Ambassador when the five are once again reunited. “This strong gentleman is Ezra, The Carven Correspondent. He is curious about how the group of unfinished man would react to him.” Then he points to the man in glasses. “This is Herman, The Croaker. He just beat the boss of Blightwater Boys and I risk telling that would like to know if someone, maybe those distinctly dressed figures, would pay for future shows.” He mentioning pointing at the finely-dressed group in the ward. “Last but not least, this is Tarkhan, the Banished Devotee. Coming from the Khanate he has histories never heard in Fallen London to tell.”

The last words an offer in tandem to Croup’s suggestion. Maybe enough to make the Ambassador lose interest in coin. One can only try, he said with the voice of his mind, before turning to his confederates.

“Our new acquaintances happen to be able to procure us some tools of defense, the price being a book or a good history or some coin. I am hoping that together we can meet the demands.”

Notes: Damien basically asks covertly about the colonists and the finely-dressed groups, while updates his allies on the situation and waits for their answers (maybe someone got a book).

(The Aberrant Ambassador is not Shhhlr'aSHOOSH. It's the tall, twisted fellow. Shhhlr'aSHOOSH, the one who asked for the story, is the Braided Cephalopod)

The Aberrant Ambassador nods along, teeth bared in a rictus grin. "Quite the motley group you have there, yes indeed... Ezra, hm? I wonder... what exactly ARE you missing, unfinished man? I count every finger on every hand, every feature on your face. I am... largely unfamiliar with your kind, but surely if you have ended up here, you must be incomplete, yes? And you. The... Croaker? I confess that it is a name I have not heard." While its lipless mouth is incapable of ceasing its grin, the Aberrant Ambassador's smile loses its mirth as the well-dressed ones are mentioned. "Oh, them? No, no. There is one thing they want, and one thing alone. Look at their eyes, scent the air, you will understand." It turns then to Tarkhan, its smile returning. "The Khanate, hm? We get many of your type here. Spies and the like. Though they don't gather like we do, the officers forbid them. Are you a spy, little man? Do you sell London's secrets to your masters across the sea? Not that I care either way, of course. I must say, I would be interested in hearing your stories, if you have any, and assumedly so would our dear rubbery friend. The Khanate is some ways from my Castle in the Sky, and from Flute Street below London, where he once dwelled."

"A SENSE OF HUMOR.", Ezra rumbles in dour reply.

The Aberrant Ambassador raises an absent eyebrow (eyebrows seem to be in short supply among this group), seemingly unable to tell if Ezra is telling a joke, or is dead serious.

Ezra returns the inquiring non-eyebrow with a deadpan face.

(So, unless anyone wants to do anything else with the bizarre group, what's the plan?)

"IT NEEDS TO BE A NEW BOOK? ONE YOU HAVEN'T READ? WHAT IF WE GET ONE THAT YOU ALREADY HAVE? AS FAR AS A HISTORY, DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE LAND I CAME FROM?"

"I knowwr littlle abourt landshh beyond Lorndon. I barrely knowwr Lorndon, shinshe I lirvved in Flurte Shtreet. Arnnd I harvve feww bookshh, beshideshh fungal love poertryy."

"I HAVE NEVER HEARD SUCH POETRY. IF YOU WISH, I COULD TELL YOU OF THE LAND I AWOKE IN, THE ISLAND OF POLYTHREME. IT IS A PLACE TO AVOID, LONDON IS MUCH MORE QUIET AND PEACEFUL, AND UP HERE EVEN MORE SO. IN POLYTHREME, THINGS ARE NOT WRITTEN BOOKS, FOR THE PAGES WOULD SHRIEK THAT THEY USED TO BE TREES, THE INK WOULD WEEP SORROWFUL TEARS, THE PEN ITSELF WOULD CURSE YOUR NAME FOR PRESSING IT SO. EVEN OPENING A BOOK, THE LEATHER WOULD HOWL IN UNMITIGATED HORROR THAT IT HAD BEEN RIPPED FROM THE BACK OF THE CREATURE THAT IT USED TO CONTAIN. LIGHTING A LAMP TO SEE TO READ BY, THE WICK WOULD WAIL AS IT IS CONSUMED BY FLAMES THAT THEMSELVES WISH ONLY TO CEASE EXISTING. IF WE NEED TO WRITE SOMETHING, WE PRESS IT IN EARTH OR STONE, IT SCREAMS NO LESS, BUT BEING OF LESS EPHEMERAL MATERIAL, ITS PAIN IS GIVEN VOICE IN DEEPER, SLOWER TONES THAT MAKE IT ALMOST TOLERABLE."

Shhhlr'aSHOOSH leans in as Ezra speaks, eyes wide, evidently incredibly interested. He nods along, slowly, tentacles undulating in a fascinated sort of way. The Mycologene Poet pulls out a notebook and is about to begin writing, when his blemmigan friend nips him sharply on the ear with its beak and he quickly tucks both notebook and pen away.

While the group is talking to the bizzare group, Herman tries to find the apparently mythical Fence he is supposed to converse with. "Surely I can find an ugly fella, although... that seems to be a trend around here."

(Herman, are you just looking about the yard? Or doing more asking around?)