Fenimor Vish enters the Heroica Hall in a manner Which can be best described as "not from around here". "?", he inquires pensively in a special way most Sargassen are well known and politely tolerated for. A moment passes, then another, as the sharkskin-loincloth-skirt-thing-clad Barbarian is quietly regarded by those present. Fenimor blinks a few times in sagacious contemplation and, then, turns his attention to the Quest Board.
Slowly, carefully, as if navigating a complex and treacherously narrow path framed by a pit of deadly, economy-sized red scorpions, Fenimor Vish makes his way to the wall covered with various postings, note scrolls and mystical wanted ads. Suddenly, he appears to be absorbed by a sort of contemplation, his eyes rapidly scanning the many missives independently of each-other. He pauses on an inviting scroll, illuminated in a tidy and attractive script. "Quest #13 Awaits!" seductively declares the notice in that special way an unattended bag of gold calls out to a passing-by cutpurse. The Barbarian examines the poster for what seems like minutes. Then he picks up a piece of writing coal, placed conveniently near the Quest Board, gently sticks out the tip of his grayish-purple fish tongue, and dutifully scratches out a "" in the space underneath the names of all those signed up before him.
Feeling accomplished, he returns the writing coal to its holder and arranges his feet in a manner which, eventually, brings him to an empty sit at the bar. Vish pauses to bow and utters a fishy sort of couplet which finds itself in the middle of the road between a gaudy limerick and a chased prayer. His ritual complete, Fenimor mounts the sitting implement, now formally prepared to handle the sanctity of his behind, with an expression of carefully measured joy, evident only to those familiar with the complex emotional states of the Sargassen. Stool properly occupied, he turns to the female bartender and weighs the pros and cons of pantomiming an order of drink.