The dragonborn looks over and gives a friendly nod. "Hello."

Zanryn is uncharacteristically quiet. Dragonborn, rarely though he has encountered them, instil an unease in him that Lizardfolk do not. He is unable to forget the childhood tales of swarms of kobolds murdering svirfneblin as they slept - and worse - nor his later experiences with these merciless dragonkin. He resolves to keep his innate fear bottled inside, the knot in his stomach as tight as his companion's balled fist.

OOC: Wasn't home for two days, doing my round of catch-up. Good to be back!

Durmatl is quietly nursing his drinks, listening to the other two talk. As Zanryn mentions the prize money not being a whole lot of coin for a group of their size, he shortly interposes to mention the conversation he had caught around the moment, then falls into silence again. When the conversation turns to the Dragonborn and Zydalia expresses her anger, he gives the Dragonborn a long, appraising look, then turns to the Tiefling, slurring his words as the drink has taken effect. "Thank you. Very few think like you. Do you want to invite him over, be friendly as you have been to me? To us?"

Mechanics:

Zydalia's anger subsides as she watches the expression on Zanryn's demeanour change. Her face softens, and she reaches her arm out to put her hand on his forearm in a motherly manner. 

"I would like to - it's no fun to drink alone," she answers Durmatl's question. "But only if it is okay with our companion here." 

Zanryn swallows and nods, not trusting himself to speak as unaccustomed and conflicting emotions wash over him. He tries to picture a cave with glistening, phosphorescent walls decorated with ferns and fungi, a soft sandy floor into which he sinks his fingers...but it's not sand any more, instead it is spores that rise into a noxious, choking cloud from which distorted faces peer at him. A thin sheen of clammy sweat breaks out on his face.

Zydalia stands, holds a hand out to Zanryn. She cannot, in good conscience, sit idle while her companion mires in his discomfort, no matter how much she might want to welcome the stranger to their table. 

"Perhaps you and I could step outside and enjoy some fresh air?" she suggests. She shoots a glance at Durmatl, imploring him to address the dragonborn himself.

Zanryn gratefully accepts the proffered hand, which feels pleasantly warm, and stumbles outside. Taking a deep breath of the fresh evening air, he composes himself. "I apologise, I fear I may have had a drop too much mead". The carefully maintained mask slipping, he continues, the words tumbling out before he can catch his tongue, "Something has changed in me since arriving in this town. I've always had a power, a gift if you will, to meld stone and wood, a connection to natural life. Only now it feels I am touched by death too. It's as if life and death are parts of a grand cycle, with one leading to the other and then back again. Death isn’t the end of life, but instead a change of state that sees life shift into a new form. Could this be the doing of the black rose?"

In the cool night air, Zydalia listens attentively to the gnome's words. "Too much mead happens to the best of us," she replies, speaking from experience, from too many nights spent oversharing in taverns with new acquaintances and making people uncomfortable. She learned a few years ago to stop burdening others with her pain. She's more than happy to be on the other end of these conversations, however.

"You don't need an excuse for speaking from the heart. That sounds quite a burden." She leans against the wall of the tavern. "I don't know much. I'm a simple woman. But it certainly seems as though death has touched this place in a different way to most." She lowers the volume of her voice. "Why else would they include this illusive black rose in the hunt, unless they expected someone could actually find it?"

Durmatl fights down his panic as the two leave, he had quickly become accustomed to their company, and now he once again feels the fear of being alone in a world hostile to him. With a weak smile shot at the Dragonborn he pulls back the chair Zanryn was sitting in, in what he hopes would be seen as an inviting gesture, then quickly stares down at the table, careful to not lock eyes with too many strangers in this place. The Dragonborn was another Scaled, but they had made it further into being accepted into society, where many still feared Lizards. For good reason, in some parts of the world, and Durmatl has to admit his own reasons for traveling might be frowned upon, or worse, by the locals in this city.

Bethozus slowly approaches, but they notice the other two leaving. "...is something wrong?" they ask Durmatl. "And are you all together?"

"Too much to drink, small body." Durmatl says, hoping to disguise the fact Zanryn had smelled terrified just before they left. He had a nose for such things, but he understood the Gnome would not appreciate that information being disclosed with a stranger. "They are just getting some air."

He gives the Dragonborn a look, then asks, "What happened to you?"

Unexpectedly, Zanryn feels a rush of comradeship with the Lizardfolk and the Tiefling. He has been on his own so long, the idea of actually trusting others is anathema to him. Yet he finds their presence now comforting.

He realises he is still holding the Tiefling's hand, and he smiles as he thinks of the local humans' reaction earlier in the day to the two mismatched species. "Maybe we three have more in common than I thought possible", he concedes out loud. "Maybe with the Dragonborn in there too, for that matter".

He looks quizzically up at Zydalia and asks hesitantly, "Do you feel anything different since you came here?"

"What do you mean, 'what happened to me'?" Bethozus tilts their head. 

Zydalia weighs up his question, pleased that Zanryn seems to have calmed down somewhat. "I think you may be right," she returns. "I believe we've things in common. Perhaps it was luck that brought us to Ethereal. Perhaps it was something more. Either way, I'm pleased to have met you both." She considers his second point.

"I'm not sure if I feel different," she replies. "Though I can't say I've been in this situation before. I am often an acquaintance to the world, and I try to keep it that way. Teaming up with strangers to collect roses for a folk festival? Distracting stall holders with magical smells and sounds? Consuming far too much mead and opening up in the night air?" She laughs. "Not my usual way of doing things. But I'm glad to have made an exception." 

At this, she lets go of Zanryn's hand before wrapping her arms around herself in an attempt to stay warm. The cold air hits, and she wonders if she's said too much, if the mead has loosened her lips without her noticing. Maybe it's time to call it a night. 

"I am going to head to the bar, sort out the sleeping arrangements with Merri," she says. "I have definitely had enough excitement for one day...will you be alright?"

Durmatl tilts his head in turn, for a moment not understanding how he could be misunderstood. "Did someone hit you with that really hard? Is it stuck there?" His eyes flicker up to the crystal, then forgetting all sense of propriety he simply stares at it, watching how the scales form where the crystal and skin meet.

Zanryn gives a cocky smirk, as if nothing has ever been awry. "Of course. Time to confront my demons. Or in this case, a harmless Dragornborn".

He holds the door for Zydalia before heading back to the table and immediately introducing himself to the much larger Dragonborn, "Well met. I am Zanryn Beren, lately of the town of Ethereal. Since this very morning, in fact."

Zydalia grins. "That's the spirit." 

She follows Zanryn's lead, introducing herself to the dragonborn as well. "Zydalia Quexx. Also new to this place." She smiles widely before turning to the bar, seeking out Merri so they can sort out the sleeping arrangements. She makes a mental note to request some assistance with her sullied dress. If not, perhaps she'll be able to use some of her winnings to buy something at least semi new.

Zanryn notices Durmatl's awkwardness and gestures disarmingly, "This is my friend, Durmatl. Please forgive his curiosity. It's not every day one sees someone of your, ah", his voice tails off for a moment, "distinctiveness".

when you are ready to go to your rooms let me know so i can lay the scene for tomorrows events. Welcome back.

OOC: Zydalia is ready to retire for the night.