Desna considers the contents of the bar.

It is a bunch of generally very ordinary low to mid circle mortals. The occasional more serious sort of local adventurer but to her those things aren't really very different. 

Abadar thinks that if you put a bunch of them together for long enough they make beautiful things and... look, she sort of sees it, a little, the cathedrals they build for Aroden are lovely, but mostly she does not really understand mortals who live in cities instead of leaving them to explore the wilderness. 

Except-- 
hmm. 

"--Come on, an alignment. Fuck off with that. It's stupid bullshit, they're not real. Adventurers have them because they're a thing you get when you die and adventurers all die because they're idiots and Pharasma can probably see they're going to so she's doing her ledgers in advance, why not, right. I'm never going to have any such thing. Why would you want--" 

Cayden. Help. She has found the stupidest possible mortal. Look at him. He's the worst. She wants to keep him forever actually. 

(approximately a hundred years later) 

The smuggling-art-into-Nidal-when-we-can't-smuggle-people-out operation has been slowly ongoing for several millennia but it has improved considerably recently. A Tien wizard managed to turn the scrivener's chant into a cantrip (apparently they're using it for documenting rituals?) and someone finally pried it out of them with liberal application of the power of friendship so now they are using it for art propaganda. As one does.

They got caught by the Kuthites at a guard post a few miles from the border,  and they are definitely about to all die, but then: 

"Hello! I got a message saying you lovely folks needed some help!" says a cheerful voice, immediately preceding a man in a tattered black cloak with patchy hand-embroidered stars on it teleporting into the middle of their enemies, four-pointed starknife in hand.

Relatively shortly thereafter they have no more enemies. 

"Er. Thank you, Voyager?" someone ventures, because this is, let's be real, like a DC -2 Knowledge (Religion) check. 

"Oh, I don't think I'm that, I haven't got the spells," he says cheerfully. "Peregrin's fine." 

Hmm. That's worse. A Voyager'll charge you in stories. Some random guy in a starry cloak might want money and they do not super have money. "...um, we should probably, get out of here, before their backup shows up."

Grin. "I hear you lot have a cool new spell? Escort you to the border for a copy and I promise I won't do anything really stupid with it." 

"What will you do with it?"

"Oh, I have a friend who is mad every person in the world hasn't read the History and Future and can't afford to pay for the spell slots."

"...yeah, all right." 

(approximately a hundred years later) 

"Try AGAIN--" 

"Look, Voyager, I'm really sorry, but I don't think I can in good conscience take any more of your money for the spell slots. It's not going to work." 

"I'm not a fucking priest, if I had spells they'd be fine." A channel solves a lot of problems but lethal curses from your political rivals are not among them. Fuck Oppara, fuck the entire goddamn empire of Taldor actually, and additionally fuck him for being such a shitty Desnan that She does not see fit to give him so much as cantrips. 

Frustrated sigh. "You've got channels! Who else do you think gives those out to people like you, Sarenrae? ... I'm sorry, that was rude. Have you, uh. Have you tried wearing an owl's headband." 

He... has not, actually, which is symptomatic of needing one, isn't it. 

The other symptom of a long-overdue Owl's, of course, is the tendency to discover that you regret a great many of your choices and are now very depressed. 

Well. Yeah. 

It doesn't even give him spells. 

(approximately three hundred years later)