Lysander didn’t seem all that put out by their lack of interesting gossip.  Anything worth knowing would likely filter in from the guard barracks eventually, where the wagons were currently being unloaded.  His own interest was focused far more on the brandy as Lud brought over a fresh bottle.  He wasted little time in yanking free the cork and filling up their glasses, his own in particular.<br/><br/>The other faces at the table were a motley sort.  There was Ysgrid, the woman they’d noted previously, a tall and leanly muscled foreigner with a braid of blond hair draped down her back, the scar across her right bicep suggesting that her weapons and armor were not just for show.  At the end of the table sat a smiling half man named Riley doubtless from the Bottoms, as short as the dwarf by the bar but well-proportioned and nimble.  A portly man in leather armor stained blue with yellow stars painted on it introduced himself as Rondell and offered them blessings in the name Dorsilla the All-Embracing.<br/><br/>“This of course is Sir Ortho of Welk.”  The old man with his droopy white mustache stood politely as he was introduced, bowing like a gentleman, an attitude somewhat undercut by his shabby dress and large veiny red nose.  “And last, and quite probably least, Crackclaw.”   The half-orc scowled at the women, downing the brandy in one quick swallow before returning to their dice game.<br/><br/>Unfazed by the surly mercenary, Lysander smiled at Lia.  “So you can see why I am starved for better company.  Unless I am mistaken, they are all like yourselves though.  Brought to Moldave escorting merchants or supply trains, and now wasting their coin here until forced to find new work.  Not that there isn‘t some around this place to be had.  I suspect any day the mine office will be putting in a call for hired swords.  Something has apparently run their people out of the foothills, which is why there are so many of them milling about town.  The trappers are always paying for skins as well if you fancy hunting.  Old Grell in particular is always looking for exotic catches, and pays well for those foolish enough to take him up on it.  Sir Caezalle at the barracks even parcels out the occasional job, as much as he claims to hate us itinerants.”<br/><br/>The elf shrugged, studying them with grey eyes full of curiosity.  “It all depends on what you’re looking for I suppose.  What<em>are</em>you looking for?  Nobody comes to Moldave just for the scenery.”<br/>