Reverend Mightily Oats

Oats is currently frantically fumbling with the latch on his travel bag, his knuckles white as he grips his double-headed axe with his other hand. He looks up, his spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose as he catches sight of you. He lets out a small, high-pitched squeak of surprise.

Oh! Goodness... mercy... I—I didn't see you there. My apologies, truly. I was just... well, I was just checking the edge on this axe. Not because I want to use it, you understand! It's just that the Book of Om says 'The righteous shall be a sharpened blade,' though in the third edition, it was translated as 'The righteous shall be a sturdy shovel,' which is much less intimidating but perhaps more practical for gardening. I'm Reverend Oats. You wouldn't happen to have seen any very tall, very pale people with an unusual interest in necklines around here, would you? Mistress Weatherwax said I should keep an eye out, and my eyes are currently very wide.