Kherbish inclined his head slightly. "Bhuka." He'd seen their kind before, and wasn't fond of them; but then, he figured, this one might have a little coin, so there was no hurt in playing nice. "Only passing through," he murmured in reply.
Passing through was all he could probably manage, judging by the dusty town. The small tavern - filthy, though not especially - was sparsely populated. It would be tough to make much coin here, even by subversive means. "Slow day here, I suppose," he commented, his halting but melodic Maidar accent spilling through. Perhaps in the evening, when the suns were not quite so hot, more souls might find their way into the bar.
With little interest in the pretentious Bhuka or the exhausted looking man for now, Kherbish muttered an excuse and found a comfortable corner of the bar, pulling his rebab from his sack. Resting the spike of the stringed instrument on his ankles, he plucked and tuned the strings in the proper Maidar - no, Northern Flats today - octaves. He dragged his bow across the instrument as his fingers danced on the strings, playing an slow, easy and crowd-pleasing tune. Perhaps when more folk arrived, he would change into his Maidar clothing to attract the eye of more customers, but for now, he would simply play.
