'Is this the temple, man who has never left this land yet who speaks our language perfectly?' Bradan tapped his staff on the rocky ground.
'This has always been our language,' the man said.
'And have these always been your clothes?' Reaching out, Bradan rubbed the man's long robes between his finger and thumb. 'Fine wool, yet I cannot see a single sheep on this island.'
'Bradan…' Melcorka frowned at his lack of manners.
'And this food and drink…' Bradan took the tray from Melcorka's hands. 'You have beautiful oaten bread here, grown in a land with no crops, and mead from an island with no flowers or heather to encourage bees.'
'We offer you all we have,' the man said.
'You are a liar.' Bradan thrust the end of his staff against the man's chest, sending him backwards. 'Who are you?'
