Kenishiro looked around the hall, drinking in the new and strange faces and clothes. The barbarians of the West were a strange lot, that was for sure. None of them were aware of the basic need for elementary politeness, some of them shouted at you for just looking at you, and others threw coins at your feet when you were sitting down for a rest. This man had given him a good meal and afterwards he had talked to him. And with the help of Hiroshi's dictionary he had found out that the man needed help of some kind. Kenishiro agreed.

And now he was in a large hall, with strange people whispering and looking around. As he looked around he was part of the select large few once again. He noticed another large man with a matching large sword, not a naginata-to, but large all the same. Walking inside, he didn't look down. He often didn't. It was therefore that he bumped into someone. Him being very large, and her being not very large at all, the result was pretty obvious and pre-ordained. Kenishiro looked down to Teague, his eyes very troubled.

"Ite! Gomen Nasai... uuuhn... I... I sorry."

Kenishiro looked at the young woman, his young face apologetic.

Teague fell to the ground lightly, ripping the sleeve of the black tunic she wore in the process, revealing a glimpse of steel--a dagger perhaps--underneath. She looked up as she rose gracefully to her feet--much more gracefully than she had fallen. And kept looking up. Another damned giant.

She glared at him for a moment, not seeming to realize that he could squish her like a grape, or perhaps not recognizing him as a threat. "Yeah, sure, whatever." she says, then sees the sincerity in his eyes. "No, I'm ok. I just need to get another tunic, is all. Don't worry about it." She touches his arm lightly, then turns around to watch the progress of the line.

Any attempt at conversation is interrupted by the men in black, who do not seem to be happy with the latecomer to the meeting. They step in uncomfortably close to the newcomers and Teague, and the functionary at the door stands up, the last of the group having entered, and hails the few people remaining, "In or out? We do not have all day!" He angrily exhults.

Rhune looks around to see what is happening and notices the "wizard" that Sam had seen and the other newcomer to the hall.

Matteo continues to scan the crowd and notices the few people who have kept watching the small group. He catches eyes with them and nods deliberatly, allowing them to know they have been seen and give them an opening to talk if they choose.

Matteo's eyes linger on the catwalk of crossbowmen and the guards at the doorway, struggling with a plan to get himself out if trouble arrives. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he gives in to the enevitable. The Swiss were just too damn good at unit tactics. Unless he was let out, Matteo knew he had no chance. *So*, Matteo thought to himself as he studied one of the spear-wielding Swiss, *Better pay atention during this interview!*

Matteo nodded to the spearman as he met his eyes and turned his attention to the ever shortening line. "Buck up, friends. Our time of judgement fast approches. May your chosen gods grant you freedom and guard you in this trial."

Hands fingering something at his chest, hidden beneath his robe, Matteo gestures to the group. Then his hands drop, comfortably, to the two bulges at his hips.

The massive crowd has depleted quite a bit while the group has talked and introduced themselves. Those paying attention have noted that the rejection rate at the door has climbed startlingly high, and along with it, more and more of the crowd is turning tail before they get to the door, leaving the group of you along with only perhaps a dozen others intermixed. Your nervousness grows as sweat beads your brow, wondering if you will soon be in the magnificent auditorium, or be walking the treelined pathway to the clearing with a black-cloaked stranger hot on your trail? Many grab conspicuous bulges under their robes, weapons, amulets, holy symbols, what have you, and all wish for the best.

Rhune notes that the line is thinning rapidly and advances as it shorts. Her nervousness over the interview grows a little more but on the whole she seems to be okay.

The half dozen or so black-cloaked men who remain from the twoscore or so that were in the original group fall in behind the group, adding to your anxiety. It is impossible to make out their features, but their weapons sway with ease, and they walk like panthers on the prowl. This alone is enough to blanch most of those remaining in the line, who turn tail and walk briskly out of the clearing, leaving only yourselves, the Spanish nobleman who cursed Sam earlier, and an old man with a proud bearing, leaning only slightly on a staff he carries. While the Spaniard is noticeably pale, the old man appears untroubled by the men in black. Both go into the interview before your group, are spoken to briefly, and passed, the Spaniard visibly sighing in relief. Now comes your time.

First to approach is Silus, whose suave tongue is silenced as he approaches the desk. He shakes a bit in panic. The functionary speaks briefly, clutches his chest, half-smiles, and waves Silus forward, who almost keels over in relief.

Next Sam saunters toward the desk, apparently unafraid, though his eyes do just barely reach over the desk. The man looks curiously at him, speaks briefly once again, shrugs, and waves him forward.

Approaching after Sam is Rhune, her nerves tingling with curiousity and a bit of dread. The functionary looks apprasingly at her, leering a bit, then speaks briefly, smiles broadly, and waves her in with a flourish.

Ullar approaches next, stammering as he struggles with what to say, sweating even in the evening breeze. The functionary speaks with him briefly, frowning a bit. He then speaks with the scribe for a moment and seems rather doubtful. Finally, though, he seems to almost toss a coin in his mind and gestures impatiently for Ullar to go inside.

Matteo approaches next, only somewhat nervous at what approaches. His slight confidence is rewarded, as the man speaks only perfunctorily to him before waving him forward.

The brightly dressed foreigner approaches next, and the functionary speaks to him, cheerful in tone. Upon the man's response, the functionary clutches his chest and his smile fades quickly. He seems visibly upset. He speaks further to the man, in angry tones, that if any of you spoke the language, you would be able to hear. Upon the response, the interviewer's anger is abated somewhat, though not completely. He gestures angrily at the door, glaring at the door guards as the foreigner passes them. They remain silent.

Krige, the elf dressed in green who was silent throughout, even when approached by Urak-gor, remains silent as he approaches the desk. He does not appear nervous or shaken, though his stoic manner may conceal it. The functionary speaks, clutches his chest, and waves impatiently at the door once again. He seems to have tired of the entire affair

Marika approaches the desk, shivering in fear at the coming appraisal. However, something hard in her rises up, and she strides boldly to the man despite her fear. He speaks briefly and clutches his chest almost before she responds. However, whatever his inquiry picked up obviously cheered him, though, as he smiles at the dusky skinned woman and waves her through graciously.

Urak-gor approaches next, more confused than frightened, holding the parchment he presented earlier like a tribute. The functionary raises his eyebrows and stares awkwardly for almost a minute, his mouth agape. He does not speak, but clutches his chest absent-mindedly, then waves his hand toward the door, continuing to gape at the tusked fellow in mute amazement.