Protoss has been acting exceeding odd lately. He - I mean it, has been almost slient recently. I don't know why it has been so sullen, but I suspect it has somehting to do with the happenings at the temple.
While Gringore spoke with the head cleric, Protoss stood studying the various pictures adorning the walls. It was most interested in a particular piece of whom I can only assume is the Artificer. The largest dwarf you could possible imagine banging on his anvil with all his children walking out the other side. Not very accurate, to be sure, though a handsome representation.
After the group received their healing, Protoss made a request to speak with me privately. Huh, like privately means anything to this lot. However, looking back, I may have been a tad overvealous in my denouncement of Protoss' belief it is alive by a means other than arcane sustainment. I suppose also, that the chuckle the cleric and I had over it's idea that the art was a realistic depiction may have induced a few hurt feelings in a person. Sometimes I forget that Protoss is really quite nieve to our world. It must be because it is so tall; I practically develop a neck cramp when speaking with the creature as it towers over a foot above my diminutative frame. But that Protoss gazed upon the picture and assumed it true? It's still laughable. So I merely explained that the artwork was only imagry. A representation, if you will. Certainly not an illustration of how dwarves actually came to exist.
The others in this motley group did not appear to condone my explanation. Would they rather I lied to Protoss? Say, yes, dwarves came about from a large hairy man beating on an anvil? No! That doesn't make sense at all! I would think the people would be squashed flat if that were the case. Not to mention that the cleric agreed with my explanation, and as Protoss has this reverance for the clergy, a body would think it could accept the truth from a holy man. No matter. Even if the others are a bit stand-offish from me as well. It's a damned blessing, not having to listen to the incessant blathering. As long as we all do our jobs, we should have no issue with one another.
The hour grows late, and I find I am weary. I must get my rest, for we are searching the sewers on the morrow. I hope I can find a clothespin. |
