"Well we might as well get on with it. We can't make any decisions based in observation if we do not first observe this ship. Lead on, Scrapper!"

Tul nods as Gibson finishes speaking. She feels embarrassed to have missed the obviousness of what he is saying.

"To act on assumptions could have led all of us into grave danger," she says to Gib. "Thank you for righting our way."

She follows along after Gib and Scrapper, keeping an eye out for anything moving or watching them off the pathway.

(Perception: 7  )

Gibson grins back at Tul. "...and you know what happens when you assume, don't you? You're usually right! Now, let's get a move on, everyone!"

Wist sighs heavily, which is accompanied involuntarily with a whistle like an old man's snore.  He stifles it and glances around to see if anyone notices, and follows the herd along the torch-lit path.  He takes a hint from Tul and scans the opposite side of the path, or towards where the ship ought to me once they break from the woods.

Perception: 17

As they walk, Gibson watches Wist for several silent minutes. It's the most time he's been able to devote to considering the curious creature thus far.

Setting in with his usual cadence accompanied by flagrant gesturing with his walking stick, Gib strikes up a conversation. "So, uh, 'Tryst' was it? Now, I've trekked across this blasted continent and beyond. I've witnessed some of the strangest sights you could ever imagine! Could tell you stories that would curl your toes! I'll tell you, boy, I've crossed the deserts bare. I've breathed the mountain air! Of travel I've had my share... I've been everywhere, man! But I can say just as sure as I'm walking here beside you, I've never before met a person what could fit the...description...that you do, my friend. You seem to be a man of both talent and alacrity. I love that! I could tell from the moment I boarded the Zola's Favour that we'd be peremptory partners, couldn't you? Of course you could! So tell me, what's a distinguished individual of your particular rarity do to find himself at the beck and call of an unscrupulously conniving dandy such as our wonderous benefactor (long may he reign or whatever)?"

Wist turns his head slowly, apparently forgetting he'd intended to be a useful lookout.

"Tryst? Tryst. I like that.  Wist is just a nickname anyway.  Not sure I've got the looks to pull it off though.  I'm not sure what alacrity is, but it sounds like a good thing I suppose.  I like it when folks appreciate my talents, and Mr. Primewater knows value when he sees it.  Unscrupulous though he may be, he pays well, and it helps there's a lot for me to learn from him.  I'm an information broker by trade, and Mr. Primewater gives me a market for my skills and a chance to exercise.  I listen, particularly in places where his competitors think they're alone.  When one finds an employer as clever as Mr. Primewater, a person of my talents can make a great living without all the risk of cutting purses, or throats.  Secrets are even easier to carry than gold. You on the other hand seem to have a tough time knowing the value of a well placed word, you're spilling them all over.  My advice would be that you talk less.  And smile less also.  Now hush, we're meant to be sneaking."

Tul smiles over at Wist and Gib's exchange.

"You would have better luck telling the sun not to shine than to get that one to talk and smile less," Tul whispers.

Gibson laughs heartily and looks to the others. "I like this one! He's got spunk. There are lessons to be learned here, you know? It seems he knows how to put a metaphorical foot down while keeping his actual feet moving." He cocks an eyebrow at Tul briefly. "But I think the real takeaway here is that while a well-placed word may be preferable to a hundred strewn across the floor, one hundred carefully-chosen words cannot be matched by piecemeal jabs and jibes. Isn't that right, Hugh? Of course it is! As the old dwarven saying goes, 'The only thing better than butter is more butter!'" Gib doubles over in laughter, slapping his thigh.

After wiping a tear from his eye he grows more solemn. "But I'll tell you this, Whiff, and as a listener I know you'll hear it, riches are not hard to come by in this world. Gold and jewels and politics and power are all fleeting trifles that keep us amused while clinging to our crusty corporeal chiton. But the secrets I portage would pale your prismatic profile, snuff out the sun, and bring the entirety of existence to an esoteric end. Our individual skillsets have gotten us this far (further than most will ever go), so why don't we all acquiesce to allow each to embrace their stated strengths unhindered by umbrage?"

Suddenly Gibson's face dissolves back into teeth and eye crinkles once more. "But let me attempt to meet you on your own terms since, in this case, my circuitous speech seems to have obfuscated the greater intent behind my question: I've never seen someone who looks like you. You are clearly not tiefling, orc, human, dwarf, elf, or anything else I've come across in my extensive travels. What's your story, son?"

Wist lets out a long suffering sigh, which turns to a cough as he tries to stifle a whistle deep in his throat like a flute.

"...I'm sure I've got elf or human blood in me somewhere, but you and I have a lot in common.  We're both at least half bloods of something some great grandparent should have known better than to mess with, and we're both full of a lot of hot air.  Some say folks like me can grant wishes, but if that were true then I'd have gotten folks to stop asking me about my skin and hair years ago."

Hugh gives a groan as he continues to clutch his stomach. “St...stop talking Gib,” he says shakily. “...yer makin’ it worse.”

Gibson pats the side of Hugh's face and says, "There's a stout fellow. We'll get to kill something soon enough and you'll feel better. I promise."

At Wist's words, he lets out another guffaw. "You show more and more promise, kid! I might eventually like having you around. Assuming you prove your mettle in the events to come, of course. But if wishes were fishes, ol' Hughie wouldn't have had to eat whatever (or whoever) that was back there!" Looking to the rest of the group he says, "So apparently this one's people are fabled wish-grantors! Any of you have legendary lineages you have yet to reveal to the rest of us? Dimma? Did your great-great-grandparent invent the forge? Hugh, any ancestors who were used as battering rams? Tul...? Something...about...meditating or some such?"

Tul shakes her head at Gibson, marveling at his ability to continually use far more words than are necessary.

"I know little of my ancestors. My father was a simple farmer and never spoke of his family. My mother would occasionally tell stories about her," Tul pauses, searching for the words to explain, "about her life before my father. Her family were warriors and soldiers."

She then stops talking and continues down the path. You learn more from listening than talking, her father often said. Speak only when you feel your words are better than your silence.

"Well that's a sad story. Almost as sad as the length of this jaunt! Since we find ourselves with an abundance of downtime, Dimma, you've been pretty quiet lately, why don't you cheer us up with tall tales of the undignified opulence you hope to achieve with our eventual payoff from this job?" Gibson grins as his eyebrows bob up and down suggestively.

After a long, awkward pause with the only sound being that of their footsteps along the path, Gibson clears his throat.

"Always the strong, silent type, these dwarves. Good in a pinch but not always with the small talk. Hugh, how's that stomach of yours? With all the gold we stand to acquire from this job you should be able to buy a new one! Any other big plans once we get back to town?"

“But I don’t want a new stomach. The one I’ve got is just enough. More money means just mean more ale y’know. Don’t got too many plans other than drink in’ me self silly. Boy i’d kill for some ale right now. Probably fix me up nice...” Hugh mumbles as the party continues walking. 

"Ah, for the simple life," Gibson sighs.

"Whiff? Do you have plans of wild frivolity and unhindered debauchery? Buy a little place to lay your head? Rain down sparklies and trappings upon  a special someone? Or 'someones'? 'Somesone'? Anyone looking forward to seeing your shiny head again once we return?"

"I thought we settled on "Tryst"?  I haven't got anyone special in mind, but good coin might help me earn the new nickname, who knows.  One thing for certain though, I plan to set aside some money to invest in training and equipment for future jobs.  What about you Giblet, you planning to open a restaurant?  I hear you talking about cinnamon or cumin all the time..."

"Did we? I'd already forgotten. I tell you what: the old steel trap isn't what it used to be!" He laughs. "I just figured it was 'Whiff' on account of the smell... But come on! Hard 'G,' not soft. What you should have gone with was 'Glib' or at least 'Jib.' Now those have legs to go somewhere!" Gibson gives Wist a playful punch in the shoulder, frowns, and starts rubbing and inspecting his knuckles.