Ryth picked up the coins and put them back in his pouch. He would not throw them away as the crazy old lady suggested, for they were of pure gold. They had been coined by a master dwarven coinsmith. More than one coin had been melted down and used for other purposes.
Beginning to become irritated with the old hag, for he had not even asked for this so called reading, he tapped the table with his fingers, trying to think of what it would take to get out of the cramped wagon alive. Had he known more about where he had arrived at the behest of the accursed mist, he may have shot his way out. However, he didn't have enough to go on, and he didn't want to take the chance of alerting any local authorities. After reading the writ on the post outside of the gates, and knowing that these people were the so called Vistana, he determined to tread lightly. Besides, he may just learn more about where he was from these people.
"If my coin does not suit you, what about this," he said smoothly, pulling out a small glass vial. Within swirled a light blue liquid the consistency of wine. "This is worth five times what I offered prior, and will heal any wound from arrow or blade," he said, setting the small vial down before the crone.
Ryth will offer one potion of cure light wounds (50gp value)
Diplomacy check to convince crone to take the deal: d20 (16) + 0 = 16
The Red Condor shrieked at Sir Darvig in full wrath. Wings flapped storms of fire across the sky. "The Mage-God grows in power swifter than it appears to Paladine. This I know. A warning," Sargonnas told Darvigl, "for you to give to Paladine in your prayers."
“I will,” Darvig uttered.