The merchant frowns as he picks up a rumpled handkerchief. While he smooths it on his scaled shoulder, he glances at Sad-Face's imposing mask then speaks to the ground. "Good sir, that is one of the adventurers called for the Festival Contest. He tours the Free Cities, gives speeches about philosophy to crowds like you see here. I don't see what the fuss is about." He spits, and the phlegm sizzles on the paving stones.

One of the youngsters from the crowd trailing the monk turns around angrily. His hair is cut in the same manner, and he sticks out his bare chest belligerently. "Pal, that is Tonsure. The dreamer who invented the tonsure. He's one with the universe. I oughta make you eat that rag."