At Tak's barrage of questions, the butcher-- a lean man with mutton chops and hands like willow roots-- stands back and brandishes a meataxe in self defense.  It takes him a few scrutinizing moments to discern the words that the goblin hurls out, at which point he relaxes the two-handed cleaver and screws up his face in an obvious effort to interpret.  "Right... small gators are three silver a tail, biguns is five silver..." it's a common fact that the smaller gators are preferred, pound for pound, as they are more tender and less musky-tasting.  "Oi got eggs, too, whole jar of 'em... leathery skins, eh?"<br/><br/>Though the street is all but empty, there are several prying eyes from the shade now... two of the lanky youths are starting and pointing excitedly at the goblin, one making obvious faces at how disgusting it is.  All of them seem to miss the halfling as he makes his way closer to the butcher's stall.  There are few others traveling the street.  A long shadow, perhaps a human woman, stands talking to the wine-carting monk.  A crackle of distant thunder hints at the approach of the afternoon rain.<br/><br/>There's a riotous round of laughter-- so loud it can be heard all this way up the street, though muted.  Men laughing, and a larger number of younger-sounding men than one usually hears unless the guard is on its furlough.  (anyone who'd like local lore checks, spot, listen, anything, feel free to pm.  Use the Elliquiy dice roller please)