Rough and rowdy, Marlykan found a lot to like in Velarsburg’s only tavern, the Pushy Pixie, although the bawdiest songs he knew were apparently too tame for the locals, who shouted out their own lyrics, off-key of course, but the bevy of young maids gathered at his feet who cooed about his talent feed his ego nicely. However one figured seemed out of place; a beautiful, moon elf moved from table to table trying to engage the locals, but seemed to spend most of her time in an effort to keep their hands from creeping into her bodice. She’d slapped a few of the more insistent ones, and nearly started a brawl when a local girl objected to her “advances” toward her man, then got even more offended when she rejected him. Announcing that he needed to rest his voice at the end of the last camp song he knew, to a chorus of disappointed whimpers from the girls at his feet, Marlykan carefully waded through them toward the bar, his lute still in hand. Most of the young maids found refuge on a willing lap and disbursed into the crowd, but a few tagged along in his wake, still cooing about his musical talents, while whispering and giggling amongst themselves. “You… bard,” a sharp female voice called to him, just as he got his first sip of ale, and he turned to see the moon elf push her way through the gaggle of local girls. She was even more beautiful close-up, but bore and expression of distain and frustration. “Have you traveled this area much?” “Marlykan Dahast, minstrel of Harrowdale, at your service,” he greeted in a formal tone and bow that were decidedly out of place for the surroundings, but then added more casually with a smug smirk; “And yes... I’ve been around quite a bit.” Although his innuendo seemed lost on Fhariel, it drew a new round of giggles from the locals; bards were known to be worldly and he loved to play the part for all it was worth. “What do you know of the Elven Court?” she scowled in a demanding tone, unimpressed by his attempt at humor and disgusted by the fawning girls; sure that any one of them would happy warm his bed tonight. “Less than you, I would image,” he replied, caught off guard for a moment, but quickly regained his suave demeanor and questioned; “Aren’t you from the Court?” “I was. I want to know of about the drow!” she demanded impatiently. As the nearest settlement of any size to the Elven Court, she’d expected to find Harrowdale a staging ground for the efforts to repel the drow, but so far there was no sign of any organized attempt to do so. “Ah,” he replied thoughtfully, trying to recall every rumor and tavern tale he had heard about them. “They appeared shortly after the elves abandoned the Court and were well entrenched before anyone even knew they were there.” Her expression instantly went from annoyance to outrage at his remark about the elves abandoning their ancestral home and he took a deep draw from his ale as he realized a change in tact was called for.