Still enjoying his delicious porridge, the tortle takes this unexpected interruption in stride, his free hand reaching out to cup his bowl, keeping its contents from tipping. His eyes, wide and brown as mud, narrow slightly, taking in the inebriated dwarf with a mildly curious expression.<br/><br/>Words both languid and ethereal drift from his beak, spoken softly in the crowded bar. There is no measure of irritation to his tone, only an earnest desire to settle the dwarve's concern.<br/><br/>"Well hello there friend, I believe you are mistaken in referring to me as a what rather than a who. What implies that I am not a person, which I think I am. Then semantics of such questions are a matter of some debate I suppose though...what is and what is not a person could be defined by race, as some choose to, or based upon a capability for sapient thought. I prefer the latter myself, though you are of course welcome to your own opinion. In any case, the who of what I am is Moss.  Moss Rainwater. I am a traveler from across the sea, a tortle shaman come to your beautiful island to appreciate the many splendors of the Green Lady, and partake of your delicious porridge."<br/><br/>The last is said with a satisfied smile as the tortle dips his spoon into his bowl, and take a large spoonful of the colorfully hued oat gruel, eating it with apparent joy.