"How should one identify the potential suitability of a thing?"

"I do not know how to explain it to one who does not share my gift. It must be — the sort of thing from which legends are born. Every object has a story, but only some speak of their stories loudly enough that I can hear, and still fewer speak them loudly enough to overpower the chorus of stories that greeted me when I laid my hands on the Wardstone. ...If you are unsure whether an object is suitable, you may err on the side of asking me to look over it. It does not drain me to use my gift."

"Unique things? Mysterious ones?

"- I have these bracers of unclear origin with my name on them for some reason, can you examine them while I wear them? I do not speak Hallit and they seem to have a Tongues and Comprehend Languages effect."

"That which seems unique, or mysterious, is as good a starting place as any. If you wish me to examine your bracers, I need only touch them, and can do so just as well if you are wearing them."

Blai holds out his arm.

The storyteller places his hands gently on the bracers and closes his eyes. Something in his voice shifts, taking on a cold, sibilant quality.

"It is nearly time. So many decades of searching, so many failed experiments, and all of them have led me to this point. The most learned scholars of Golarion would call it impossible to summon a soul, not from another plane, but from another Creation — but those same scholars would have said the same about the Worldwound. I would have called it impossible that a soul of such a shape would be the one that could endure the transformation — but endure it did. For all their doubts, and all mine, the ritual is complete, the soul has been made whole, and ... he ... is stable. I can finally keep the promise I made, so many years ago."

And as the Storyteller speaks, Blai sees a vision, as clear as the vision of Lariel's sword.

He is looking down at — himself? — strapped down to some strange sort of table, unconscious and stripped of his shirt. The wound in his chest is there, as raw and bloody as it was when he was carried half-conscious into Kenabres. A woman's hands, the nails filed into claw-like points, carefully position the bracers on his wrists. She hesitates for a moment, then brushes a strand of hair from his face, and the vision fades away into the bustle of the tavern.

"What in the world does that mean."

"I do not know. Whoever placed these bracers upon you must have been very powerful, to bring your soul from another Creation. I would not have guessed such a thing was in the power of even the gods." 

The Storyteller pauses. He is — presumably not literally looking at him, but giving a good impression of someone who is. "Did you see it too? I sensed another... presence, you could say... in the vision, watching beside me."

"I saw something."

"Fascinating. I cannot remember ever meeting another with my gift, even in this limited form. ...Though admittedly, I have forgotten much of my past, so perhaps that does not mean as much as it otherwise would. There is a bit of the spring from which legends are born inside of your soul; I expect you would still need a focus with which to cleanse the Wardstone, but perhaps one not nearly as powerful as one who is more ordinary."

"I do not know how I would do that even if provided with such a focus," says Blai, instead of, "what the fuck are you talking about".

"I do not know either. Perhaps it will become clearer if such a focus can be found. Perhaps it will not, and the stories of our lives shall end, to be replaced with the stories of our deaths."

"I could... redirect some of our patrols to searching for powerful magic items? Would that help?"

"It has been more than a hundred years since anyone could see the future, and that was never the gift I was blessed with. But it seems unlikely to make matters worse."

"I'll keep an eye out," says Blai dubiously. "Is there some sort of bag I could borrow in which to collect candidate items?"

"Aimar!"

 "Yes, Commander Tirabade?"

"Fetch this man a bag, suitable for travelling and storing items."

 The man she's speaking to salutes and runs off towards the staircase.

"Is there any other mundane equipment you've found yourself to be lacking, Select?"

"I used to have frogs on my belt for the mace and for a mug and a table knife. None of that is urgent, of course."

"Aimar!"

 Aimar squeaks to a halt. "—Yes, Commander?"

"If you can find a belt with frogs suitable for holding equipment, please bring that as well. Lower priority than the bag."

 Aimar nods and dashes up the stairs.

"Normally I'd say to ask the bartender here for a mug, he's the sort who'd do it just because he thought it would be a good story, but we're crowded enough right now that he might not go for it."

"Lord Gwerm provided me with some money and I could spend some of it on a mug, given a way to carry it."

She sighs. "Gemyl's not the sort to sell off a mug if he thinks he needs it to keep the people here fed and watered. But it's worth a try, anyway."

Can he catch the bartender's eye while he is waiting for stuff to appear.

The bartender is all the way at the other end of the tavern, but if he walks over there, then yes!

The bartender is an extremely pale man, wearing a pendant with a tiny miniature mug on it. "Gemyl Hawkes. Vampire. What can I get you?"

"Is it a myth that a vampire can't abide a holy symbol, then? - I just wanted to buy a mug," says Blai, after a moment of silent wrongfootedness.

"Depends on the vampire. Maybe it's true of the ones down south. Sounds inconvenient, if you ask me, never being able to lock up your belongings."

 "He's not actually a vampire, Select. He just thinks it's funny to tell people he is."

"Careful, lad, next thing you know he'll be trying to catch me in a healing channel. Should I be offended that you want my mugs but not my ale?"