Dinnertime is nigh, and you move for the feast halls as one unit. As you travel, you position yourself next to Aaron and Gitel. There's a question been lurking in your mind all day, and you ken that you'll have less risk looking foolish asking it of your same-aged peers.
"I was wondering, o partners in pageantry, what you could tell me of the Bardbrood."
Gitel shrugs. "We've a chapter here in Port Covens. If you're ever after a nap, go attend one of their meetings and it'll put you right out. Unless you like talking about the ethics of costumery and the impermanence of memory or some such clabtrapple."
"Not enough drums," Aaron puts in.
"Not a single drum, too right. They stage good work, though, now and again. Most of it is a little too torches-and-pitchforks for me, but The Muse sent a show our way some years ago," she says, preening a bit.
"And who's The Muse, then?"
They look at you. "Only the cleverest visionary running in all Brenton," Gitel explains. "If the Bardbrood had a monarch, The Muse would be it. Always something to say, and always presented in just a brilliant way."
"That last show had words aplenty, but also spectacle like you wouldn't believe. Moved me to tears, and I haven't cried since the day I was born," Aaron boasts.
"Stop putting on airs. You shed a few last night when you dropped your spice bun and the dog ate it."
They fall into squabbling, leaving you to process what you've learned.