[Ilya]

Widlast had paused with his tongue pressed against his teeth when the serving lass came over. "Nothing for me, mistress, thank you kindly," he said, shaking his head more from bewilderment than anything else. What he'd heard of these parts was an insular folk, creatures who could vanish into the ground. And there was trouble here too, he sensed that, for all the easy stillness of the inn. Yet these two were civil, chatty, even. He fingered the serving tray, and then looked back up, at the old woman still relishing her apple-slice, and the younger girl, a easy smile trying to hold back the sheer weight of her curiosity. No, he could not conjure these holbytlan in a hole in the ground.

"Penstemon...Campanulatus, the bell-flower," he mused and then answered her. "I am Widlast," shrugging and running a hand through his hair, he leaned back against the wall. Hopefully, a foreign-sounding word or two would do for the pair. The elder seemed sharp, and as he picked at the dirt under his thumb, he knew the more she asked the more likely it would be that he'd have to lie.