<div class="floatright">(https://scontent-dfw5-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/fr/cp0/e15/q65/35089327_5247588728636540_6124479186338840576_o.jpg?_nc_cat=105&amp;efg=eyJpIjoidCJ9&amp;oh=b35bf5e57994d9e93eb29c46e5f4d852&amp;oe=5C54CDF4)</div><div align="center"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 16pt;"><span class="bbc_u"><strong>Rag “Ragsy” Stoutbrew  (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=291794.msg14326949#msg14326949)<strong></strong></strong></span></span></div><br/>“Shame the voice beyond didn’t teach you how to talk to folk that help you.” Ragsy snorted as she fumbled through her cloak for one of her flasks. The one handed drinking technique she’d developed from a decade of alcoholism was impressive, nimble fingers unscrewing and uncapping it with the practiced grace of a magic trick. As she took a short pull, it occurred to her that maybe they should smell the halfling’s breath.<br/><br/>They had given her every opportunity to make sense, but she continued to rant irritably and enigmatically. The only reason Ragsy hadn’t waved them on and retreated back to the tavern was that those undead certainly hadn’t been a drunkard’s fancy. Still, she eyed the halfling skeptically and called out, “Now that I think on it, you ornery little corn nugget, do you have a name?”