Sarka, marketplace, Klos 19th, 350AC, 12:32  (underground, 65 degrees, crescent moon)

Phallon walks up to the cart and has a look.  IN check (8): XX X = ?   He doesn’t recognize this stuff.

The badder in the cart hisses out some angry sounding words, scoops up a bit of the stuff with his clawed paw, and chucks it at Phallon’s head.  (8): 20 1 = white.  The glob of gray particles disperses in the air leaving a shower of dust, and a few gritty pieces lightly bounce off Phallon’s chest or stick to his hair.  The other three badders put down the sacks they are carrying and stare at your group with slanted yellow eyes.  There are a bunch of empty sacks in a heap, and an orderly stack of sacks that have been filled up with the gray stuff, then tied shut.  The sacks have a rune painted on them of two horizontal bars (=) with a wavy line over that.