Catanistan pauses as he sees the cripple, frowning lightly. He nods as he passes. "Sir, what ails you?"
"What ails the living? What ales? Meads, porters and lagers... lagers chopping away, never looking where the trees fall, if a tree falls on dead men, do they hear a sound? Sounds to me like a bit of a pickle... mmm... pickles...." He laughs and smacks his lips, perhaps in memory of that. "Bitter taste they have, but me? Oh, I'm not bitter. Bitter would be those who rose..." He pauses, as if not sure where he was going, a common state it seems likely. His clothing has a look of long road-remains to it.