"You asked for our help, didn't you? Am I mistaken? Clearly you can't retrieve whatever it is you want by yourself. I don't want to fight you, do you really think I'd be able to win?" She looks down at her injured arm, picking gently at the putty bandages that have melted around her upper and lower arm, around the torn black jacket sleeve. "I simply know I don't have to. As I said, you may take Temrash or leave him. But I have offered him the chance to join my merry little band of nutjobs, and you really don't want to jab your overpriced, cowardly twig into our nest of bees." She doesn't pause to wonder if Asmodee understood the gist of her mixture of Galard and English, turning to Alic. "See, this is why I refuse to eat anything here. Hrmm. Most of the time. Damn, I really am hungry. Bartender, get my friends whatever they want, on my newly refreshed tab. I'll have, uh..."
<Does he have any Cheerios?> Tara croaks tiredly.
"...yeah, do you have Honey Nut Cheerios, and fresh, cow's milk, pasteurized? Garelick Farms if there's a snowball's chance..."
The bartender regards her silently, then walks down to a dusty cupboard stocked with unopened, unexpired boxes of packaged food. All shapes, sizes, languages, some smoldering darkly. Dear God in Heaven, is that a PB Max next to the Pac Man Cereal?
He comes back in a moment with a bowl, a plastic prepackaged spoon-knife-fork set, a box of the cheerios and a gallon of milk from somewhere near Boston.
