"I remember a bard, a true bard, named Ruskettle. Olav Ruskettle. Had a bad gambling habit. Would have staked his own mother on the roll of a die. I suppose by the time you ran into him, he had nothing left but his name." Olive glared at the Nameless Bard.
“He was situated very comfortably as a tavernkeeper in Procampur. He couldn't gamble away the tavern—his wife held the title.
"So he offered you his name."
Olive shrugged. “He couldn't play anymore—lost his right hand. His voice was beginning to fade."
"So you accepted. Loaded dice?"
"Very well. You won the name fair and square. But all the rights, privileges, and immunities thereunto appertaining, you never earned."
"Just because humans don't recognize a halfling's talents doesn't mean they don't exist."