Bartholemew leaned over, a broad smile briefly lighting the massive muzzle of his face. The omnipresent bar rag was set aside. "Wonderful. One moment," he requested. Appropriate containers (mostly flat wooden plates) were brought out to take the soon-to-be-food, and whisked away to a storage room.

Then the beartender was back, counting out coins and offering them out in a hefty paw; the unspoken gesture, too, was an offer to drop them into Thalassa's pouch if she preferred.

He "hmmm'd" in thought, and went back to polishing his mug. "Well, the real dungeons, if you like. -They really are dangerous, though," he added, in a tone of good-natured warning. Then he paused, studying Thalassa, as if to ask whether she wanted to know more.