Azuriel's eyes narrow, suggesting he returns the grin behind his omnipresent black mask.<strong>"That's the drift, the spirit, the virility I like to hear."</strong>Steepling his fine thumbs, he leans back further, scuffed boots crossing on his ersatz eagle divan.<br/><br/>Foreign tone cartwheeling with quick cadence, he adds, "Syrian wine, Italian wine, Parthian wine, wine from shadow-salted Colchis; we have tipple for travelers, all types.  You'll find those<strong>casks, tools for building, and assorted other aids and implements over in the fourth boat from the right on the docks - your boat, that will be; the Bachoi."</strong><br/><br/>A hitching sob, thick and hot as pitch, comes from the kiln room.  Something wet and heavy hits the floor.  The beat of bearlike breath continues in its unbroken rhythm, and Azuriel's voice rushes on.<br/><br/><strong>"Lumber, frames, manacles all sizes, chains, chiffon curtains and tasteful frescoes - you'll find everything you might want for a winning wolf house, plus enough herbs, salves and inspiring unguents for a regular erotic apothecary." </strong>His gloved fingers flutter together with the rapidity of a hummingbird wing.