[ Even if he has a chronic case of foot-in-mouth disease, Sholmes is still observant enough to mark Oriphi's half-hearted reassurance. At least she's taken him up on his offer. She can't be that offended by his aggressive ignorance.

Sholmes doesn't take a seat himself; he remains standing, violin tucked under an arm as he plucks a small cake of rosin from his pocket and applies it to his bow. ]

A bard! How wonderfully medieval. Did he write any songs about your shared travels, by chance? May I entreat you to share a few verses?