You quickly slip the key in a pocket. Luckily, she cares more about the egg – it’s hard to avoid drawing attention to the key, since it was designed to draw attention to itself.
“And what would you do with it?” you ask pointedly. “Hatch it and use the beast’s shed scales for platemail?”
“Don’t be silly. They’d stop being any good for protection after they dried out. And if you try to keep ’em wet, you’ll make the metal parts of the armor rust,” she grumbles. “But I ain’t here to talk about smithing. That egg doesn’t belong to anyone. And I sure as heck ain’t gonna trust you actors with it, bunch of thieves. You’re already running out of town at dawn.”
“I live in this town,” you reply, taking your mask off. “And I plan on staying.”
She looks at you and frowns.
“Well, I know your face, but that doesn’t mean much. Not like faces are unique.”
Hers certainly isn’t.
“And even if you are local, that doesn’t mean I trust you anyhow. There’s folk who’d pay a good sum of gold for a swamp beast’s egg.”
Well, this doesn’t seem to be off to a good start. Maybe you can shift the conversation to friendlier ground.