(just looking, if that isn't fruitful, he'll start asking around)

Croup - has no idea what's going on - he struggles to follow the conversations with is shhhwoooys and switchesssss  - he just sits and observes 

Perception check  6

"I CAN TELL YOU MORE OF THE LAND I AM FROM, IF IT IS OF INTEREST... AND VALUE."

Herman looks around a bit, but though he sees plenty of jug-eared people, plenty of weaselly-looking types, and enough shifty smiles to fill the Bazaar's vaults, there is a disappointingly low number of combinations between the three traits. Herman briefly tails one fellow that checks all three boxes, but he speaks as clear as day, without a trace of a stutter. He concludes that if the Fence is here, he's probably either not in the yard, or not on this floor. The one clue he really has to go off of is the paper the Dour Fence gave him.

Croup, what are you looking for?

Shhhlr'aSHOOSH leans in, nodding his head eagerly. "I wourlld lrrove trr hearr morre. Thishh wirll be an arderquate trrrade."

((I hesitate to look up more, as it seems that there are tiers of secrecy I don't want to wander past, but as part of the exchange, Ezra would share anything that is common or easily findable info about Polythreme, but deflect any most personal questions, etc.))

Shhhlr'aSHOOSH listens attentively, earholes flaring, as Ezra regales him with tales of his homeland. He speaks of the unnatural life that suffuses everything, be it stone, water, wood, or any other substance. Fanged doorknobs and water pumps lined with eyes. He speaks of the Sea of Voices, where the floor of the zee itself gapes its maw and screams noiselessly, with no breath to carry the sound, and the writhing of those great faces below stirs the peligin waters of the zee into a frenzy. He speaks of the clothes-colonies, living garments that seem more to wear their wearers than the other way around. He speaks of the births of Clay Men, how they emerge from the walls and the ground fully formed, like they were always there. He speaks of how they are shipped by the dozen to London, to work and live in the Clay Warrens below the streets. He speaks briefly on the King With a Hundred Hearts, in his palace on top of the island, but stops himself when he begins to mention dreams, quickly moving on to another subject.

His tale spins on, his gravelly tongue rumbling evenly, and by the end the Braided Cephalopod seems almost to be grinning, if such a thing is possible. It claps its handicles together, and the rest of its group join in gladly. The Aberrant Diplomat's claws click together eerily, and even the Mycologene Poet's blemmigan taps the tips of its tendrils against each other. The Scarred Astronomer (for he is scarred, a wicked one running down his face, over one empty eye socket) claps as well, though not exactly in the right direction. A Slippery Scoundrel has to correct him.

"Shhank you! Shhank you! My drreamshh wirll be firlled wirth thourghtshh of Polythhchhreme forr many nightshh to corrme! Clotheshh-colonieshh. Who wourlld harve guersshed?"

"An adequate trade, indeed," purrs the Aberrant Ambassador. "Meet me, after supper. I will guide you to the Undertaker."

Shhhlr'aSHOOSH again seems miffed at the tall creature's interruption and its offer to guide you, but keeps mum.

"FORTUNATELY I DO NOT EXPERIENCE DREAMS, BUT THE MEMORIES OF THAT LAND ARE VIVID ENOUGH WITHOUT UNCONCIOUS HALLUCINATIONS."

He turns to the Mygologene Poet and his little blemmigan, "SOME DAY I SHOULD LIKE TO HEAR YOUR POETRY. LET ME KNOW IF YOU REQUIRE SOMETHING IN TRADE TO EXPERIENCE YOUR ART."

The Mycologene poet brightens up instantly, and his blemmigan hops around excitedly. "Oh, really? Are you serious? You would? I'm honored, none of the others want to hear it anymore! Please, take a poem. Or three! Or all of them!"

He begins tearing out a page from his notebook to hand to you, fingers trembling excitedly.

Ezra gently takes them from his hands, bowing slightly. "YOU HONOR ME WITH YOUR CRAFT. I WORK IN STONE AND METAL, THOUGH I CURRENTLY HAVE ACCESS TO NEITHER QUARRY NOR FORGE. FORTUNATE YOUR CREATIVITY IS LESS HAMPERED BY SUCH CONSTRAINTS."

Ezra reads them over, even his ordinarily immutable demeanor is shocked by some of the language used. To call it "flowery" would be inaccurate. After all, it deals with things strictly mycelial in nature, not botanical. My God, did he just rhyme "hyphal thread" with "maidenhead?" "Umbonate" with "fornicate?" "Spherocysts" with "massive—" Ezra stops reading. Before he does, however, he notices a smaller script in the margins, scrawled elegantly with a tiny pen, which speaks powerfully of love, and of death, and of mushrooms. Looking up to the blemmigan on the Mycologene Poet's shoulder, Ezra understands that it is the real talent of the two, the man is just an amateur with a glossary of mycological terminology.

(An occurrence — you now have 1x romantic notion)

In silence, Damien watched as the odd group reacted to his friends, if one could call then in such manner. He was surprised to find that it was Ezra, out of everyone, that truly caught the attention of the other part. He didn’t take a stonemason for the kind that would know many histories to tell, but then the same could be said of a smuggler and a beggar, yet he knew the cycle by heart. Besides, the clay man had ended in that prison. There was an history to be told there. And history that involved Polythreme.

The warlock had heard about the place once or twice, but never in so much detail. Ezra’s description was truly harrowing although not as much as it should be for someone to live there. A morbid sense of curiosity took hold of his mind, questioning what kind of tales the souls of the objects from that land would tell upon their passing. Maybe dying did change me more than I imagined, he pondered just before the odd ones attested their satisfaction. The trade was done, and they would be taken to a mysterious figure called Undertaker. Our dear smuggler, he believed, spirits risen by the very real possibility of having, if nothing else, the schedule of the dirigibles.

“A pleasure to deal with such talented gentleman.” Damien said with a slight bow of his head. “Now, if you excuse me, I have to look more inconspicuous by talking with other groups.”

Didn’t take long for his eyes to meet the Tomb Colonists. If half of what was said of then held any truth then the Neaththouched knew how to start a conversation with them just fine. He started by greeting then and then asking if they had seen the fight.

“Oh, yes. That was a friend of mine.” He answered to the bandaged woman. “And I was thinking if you guys would know anything about acquiring blades in here. A few individuals that don’t know to respect a good fight seemed keen to pull steel during the, let’s call, event from earlier.”

Ezra gives a respectful nod to the Poet and the Blemmigan.

"I WILL THINK FURTHER ON YOUR WRITINGS. THANK YOU."

Croup isn't looking for anything as such - he is struggling to understand what on earth is going on - he can't do arty stuff he needs to be doing something  - something practical, something that has an outcome, something interesting ....

The Right-Hand Man crosses his arm, then realizes that you can't cross a single arm, and lets it fall back to his side. "Sorry," he mutters, "still adjusting. But if you're looking for knives..." At this, many members of the group reveal their hidden blades, one of them in particular seeming to have a flash of steel hidden under every bandage, giving them a rather lumpy appearance. "Then it's the Undertaker you want. We might be able to bring you to meet him, but obviously, there'll a price. What do you have to offer?"

A rogue smile took hold of his lips as the Tomb Colonists exhibited their blades and mentioned the Undertaker. It was fairly unlikely, nigh impossible, for the bandaged assemble to be in alliance with the odd group and that could only mean that this Undertaker was the smuggler of his theories. Someone that needed, given the nature of their endeavors, to know quite a fair bit about the security of the prison. About the schedules of everything important there, a list of which the dirigibles where certain to make part. Our poetic friends did not lie, he was relieved to confirm.

“No need to apologize and I must admit that my interest does not reside in acquiring a blade per see, but rather on the knowledge one would need to provide it.” Damien said honestly. There was no reason to incur in a new debt. They already had a meeting with the contrabandist ensured. “I imagine it would be a rather costly favor, but this Undertaker fellow could now some way out of this place.”

On his word an ever so subtle insinuation of a question. An invitation for the colonists to correct him. If they did then it was better to forget the blade dealer and focus entirely on the note Herman received. It would be their only remaining lead, after all. One that could very well be a trap.

“It may be too much of a hope, but if they get products in maybe they can even smuggle something or someone out.”

The Right-Hand Man shakes his head, "No, the Undertaker doesn't smuggle his weapons. Something as simple as a shiv doesn't warrant that. He just collects and redistributes them. As for what he might want, his interests shift. Sometimes it's candles. Sometimes it's companionship. Sometimes it's an arm." The Right-Hand Man gestures to his missing limb. "... I kid, of course. But my point is, I couldn't tell you. If you're looking for time-tables... such things are beyond me, or likely anyone on this level. If we knew when the dirigibles would come, we would have escaped already. But on the windowless lower levels, where the opportunities for escape are far less plentiful... perhaps you could find something there. But if you wanted to get down there, you'd have to either get access to the elevators somehow, or become enough of a menace to get thrown into a lower level."

Croups ears pricked up at the opportunity to be a menace - he had always felt he was rather good at that - looking towards Damien, he decided he would watch a little longer and see where this dialogue ended up

(Bump)

“It seems to be a riskier exchange, the information for the increased security, and even if there is honor amongst criminals there is no guarantee I would find some help there.” Damien says to the colonists, almost like he is thinking out loud. His excitement is quite doused by the words of the bandaged man, but there was some hope still. If the Undertaker was not one who knew the time schedules, then they should at least have contact to someone who knew. Otherwise, it would be impossible for him to smuggle half the blades he saw. Maybe they can make the blades through spellcraft, he though remembering his own ability. Sure, his weapons would endure little time away from him, but they were also stronger than the usual. Maybe the Udertaker could make something more permanent in exchange from not imbuing the blades with any special ability. Maybe they were simply just that stronger than the warlock. “Either way, do you know anything about that bunch? I think they are taking notice of our conversation.”

He pointed towards the relatively well-dressed prisoners. His intention was to speak with them, but at this point he thought it unlikely they were likely could do much more than mentions the weapons dealer. I already have confirmation about that, he said with the voice of his mind.

(The blades don't really look special, or anything. They're just standard issue prison shivs.)

The Right-Hand Man eyes the three well-dressed figures, and snarls beneath his bandages. "You would do well to stay away from that lot," he growls. "Devils are rarely up to any good."

With the mention of devils, it all clicks. The unusual fashion sense, the way the room seems warmer around them, the mention of their eyes and their scent by the Aberrant Ambassador. Those three can't be anything but devils, soul-buying ambassadors of Hell.