Act III: Coalescence

[Charon]

It was a less than perfect night's sleep for Gortig Firehand, who tossed and turned in his unfamiliar bed, his senses distracted by the lack of the usual noises, and the presence of those foreign to him. He woke early, by instinct ingrained deeper than simply the presence of sunlight, or lack thereof.
Breakfast was a simple affair, oats and honey in milk, followed by what some might call meditation, but perhaps to Gortig is more of a communion, with the land and its energies, mana if such a term holds any import to him. Those energies are surprisingly calm here, and Gortig finds it easy to centre himself.
After that, he packs up his things, and heads out into the city. Leaving is on his itinerary, after meeting Nirili at the gates, but that is to come later. First up is a detour, unplanned by Jelani, but of some import to Gortig. This is not merely an opportunity to meet with an old friend, though there's definitely an anticipation there, but also a chance to seek wise counsel, a fresh perspective on the problem. Perhaps Dethmir will have ideas that complement those of Rashkata. Maybe he'll have a different angle.
When the storm comes, one peg will not suffice to secure a tent.
The more viewpoints and advice Gortig has here, the better prepared he will be to return.

The wind picks up as you navigate the streets, making an eerie whistling sound as it is channelled through the alleys. The skies are clear, no rain to come, but the wind makes it cold and not just because of your desert heritage. The people in the streets wear thick coats, or shiver in their heedlessness. Rook clings to your shoulder tight enough to feel his claws through your clothing. He has spoken little in these unfamiliar surroundings but now he chitters in your ear. He's not affected by the cold and neither are you, thanks to your Iceplant Hex, but the wind nonetheless annoys him, ruffling his fur and causing him to squint his eyes. Those eyes are on everything and everyone, taking in the unusual sights with his usual wariness. The wind is strange here and that's mostly because it isn't whipping the sand around you. In that, at least, the wind is almost pleasant.

After asking around a few places, giving Dethmir's name and description, you eventually find yourself approaching what you presume to be his domicile. Small, unassuming, and in need of some repairs. You rap sharply on the door and await his response.

[Gimble]

"No pulling his beard, Rook! Or no peanuts for you today."

Rook lets out a protesting chatter.

[Cmdr Maxwell]

Hoisting the small barrel up onto his right shoulder again, feeling the exquisite contents of Ginn's Gin sloshing about, Dethmir wearily sighs from deep within. Having just finished his last assignment yesterday of guarding a nobleman's private event that bored him to near death, the dwarven cleric looked forward to putting his feet up and drinking himself into a stupor as the days main event.

Walking around the corner, the cleric stops in his tracks at the corner of the building. Seeing someone standing in front of his abode, seemingly well out of place in strange garb. From this angle, Dethmir doesn't immediately see the monkey.

His hand hovers over the sheathed kukri tucked into his belt. This could only mean one thing of two things.

"If ya after money or peddlin' services, please just feck off. This barrel is singing to me and I intend to listen to it. Alone." He calls out, his gruff cadence carrying the weight of his disdain at the delay to his drinking plans.