Markoa leaned back against the tent pole and sipped the new summer ale that Lucian had dreamed up. The cool drink felt good cooling his throat and Markoa would have downed the whole thing and ordered another if he hadn’t learned that watching Grigori needed sharp wits. He had been studying the orator for the past 3 day and found the portly man more interesting by the hour. When he spoke, which had progressed to two to three demonstrations per day, he filled the venue with people who became agitated for or against his arguments and Markoa learned to stand at the back of the Hay Bales. The Bales themselves were twice the size that they were only a few days before when the Baron and the others had confronted the man. The tent over those closest to the stage was a new feature as well and given that Lucian’s wife, mother and sister had suspiciously been replaced by six young local girls as waitresses Markoa felt sure that while the brewer might not have agreed with Grigori’s proselytizing he most certainly did appreciate the business it had created. Every bale of hay spread beside the Drunken Stag Brewery was occupied by multiple patrons as were the many wagons parked around the circumference of the area from local farms as far away as the Sootscale Caves and Rickety Bridge. It was beginning to look as busy as Festival Day had been and Markoa could see the guard moving about quietly keeping the peace. The guardsmen seemed more reserved and focused doing their job than was usual but then Markoa could only imagine what the Beldame had said to the men with Ismort gone. Regardless, they were doing well and keeping away from the stage the distance they were ordered to.