"A plague of<em>rats,</em>you say?"  Zemok is intent on the miller's story, and he doesn't notice the halfling lady until she's right at his arm, but he doesn't pause in his speaking.  He seems quite capable of holding two conversations at once, and in fact moving back and forth between topics with ease.  While apparently friendly, it displays a calculating turn of mind unusual in such a rustic context.  "I don't know what my companions are inclined towards, but I'd like one of the private rooms, thank you.  Oh, Oprah, the miller here was just telling me that you're about to run into a shortage of flour.  How unfortunate that is, I've been genuinely hoping to find that the bread from your kitchen is as fine as the ale from your cellar.  A pity, perhaps we can correct that little inconvenience for you."<br/><br/>He swivels his dark, intense eyes back to the men at his table without a beat.  "Now, just so that we're entirely clear, when you say a plague of rats, you mean more than just, well, a great many of them.  Because that is the sort of thing that would merely require the services of a ratcatcher.  Possibly with a small but vicious dog.  You know the type.  So, what we are in fact speaking of is some sort of supernatural confluence of the little beasties, sufficient to actually keep you, a man full-grown, from entering your mill.  Are we quite understanding each other?"