Raucous drunkards cheer your caravan on as you parade from Westfenster's gate through the streets of Hondelet and beyond. You wave and joke with the crowd, trying not to wince as the occasional celebrant pelts you with a handful of pistachio shells—a prayer for prosperous travel, you're told. Drunks will look for any excuse to throw things. Brute is certainly not enthusiastic about the custom, and flicks the shells back whence they came with startling accuracy.
There's a great puppet of a Flenish knight, with ill-fitting armor and crossed eyes, that several of your new compatriots are fond of trotting out and dismembering to the delight of the audience. After the third stop on the tour, you approach them about the bit.