“Introductions would seem to be in order,” says the man Kallar is sure is a professional trickster. “My name is Kitson, but my friends call me Hollis.” The armoured man next to him sneers.
“Like he said, he’s Kitson,” he begins, and everyone but Kallar laughs. “I’m Pol Grevis.”
“My name is not your concern, but you may call me Duchess, or simply My Lady,” says the veiled woman.
“Elvish names are never told to outsiders. But you may call me by the translation of my name into your human tongue: I am Tiger Hunter-of-the-Greensward.”
“Just call him Tiger,” says the dwarf. “We dwarfs are not so precious with our names. Call me Darrus Sharpblade.”
There is a brief pause, until the hairy man realises that for whatever reason, the boy-man is not about to speak.
“I am Grigory,” he says, a little uncertainly to Kallar’s ears. There is another awkward pause, until Kallar realises that they are waiting on him.
“I’m sorry, I assumed that you already knew my name. I am Kallar, Son of Will.”
“You can call me Bridget the Dark,” says the woman next to him. The blue-skinned man smiles for the first time that Kallar can remember. He looks surprisingly friendly.
“I am called Phanathon” he says.
“You would call me Crystal Light-of-the-Stars,” says the second elf.
“And my name you should already know,” says the minstrel, “but just in case you missed it, it’s Davos, Tunesmith Extraordinaire.”
“This one is the handmaiden of the god Z’hel, known as Carasina,” says the priestess.
The boy’s old eyes appear almost young for once as he smiles. “And my name is Kharl Deffeng.”
“Well, now that we all know who we are, we should have a drink,” says Kitson. “You’re buying,” he tells Kallar.