"I realize that these past days have been stale, but, perhaps, in the future, we might at least strategize a little before rushing into battle. Like we did when bringing justice to those bandits? That would be most appreciated." The warrior priest attempts to soften his reproach by offering a soft smile and raising his eyebrows.

Ch'dau now moving about more and more, answers, “Quite. My apologies, friend Gib. I should have known better.”

Aranwen's face takes on a more serious look, "I am sorry, my friend. But there was no time to discuss tactics in this situation!" She points to the three fallen pilgrims near them "As it was, I was not fast enough to save THEM. How many more would lie dead if we had delayed when the time came for action?" The serious look on her face softens as Aranwen sighs and says, "But you are right, rushing headlong into danger could have gotten one of us killed. We were lucky to have escaped relatively unscathed."

"We were, indeed," the dark-haired and bearded priest looks solemnly upon the dead Lysorans. "They made no indication that the enemy was upon them, Aranwen. Do not take blame away from the attackers by laying claim to that which you have no right. You fought well, Praise Therassor, as did you, Ch'dau, and you, Kith. The blood of these who have fallen this day does not belong to us.

"Come," he drops a gloved hand to the bladesinger's shoulder, "let us at least see what further aid we might be able to offer these good people of Ertain."

Gib is relieved to find the leader of the pilgrims alive if staggering with what the priest suspects is at least a couple of broken ribs instead of among the dead or more severely wounded—several of his companions bear deep gouges in their flesh, thanks to the claws of the giggling monstrosity, and three more lie dead. Only a half dozen pilgrims still live... if one could call their half-starved, shambling existence "life".

 "How far is it to your destination," the cleric of Therassor asks, choosing to ignore the stench wafting on in the heavy air, "and will you truly be safe there?"  

The bearded pilgrim shakes his head, "The Shrine is perhaps three days' journey from here. Will we be safe? Only the gods can say. This is good country, the roads under King Jarom's rule have always been safe. But in these times? Who can say? The road ahead must be safer than the road behind us. All we can do is have faith... and keep moving."

The fixed gazes of the three bodies on the ground stare into the dusky sky and mock the simplicity of the holy man's words. Addressing the pilgrim leader, Aranwen asks, "How long has it been since these fiends first started attacking? Have you any idea where they may have come from or what could have provoked these attacks? Perhaps something strange occurred just before the attacks started?"

The bearded man blinks three times, his gaze unfocused. He takes so long to answer that the bladesinger begins to worry he has perhaps lost conciousness, yet somehow remained on his feet. But answer he does, in a choked voice, "We have endured this for four nights, now. Once, twice a night. They come, they kill, they take." A sob escapes his gaunt frame.  

"What provoked this, I cannot say. We had hoped that reaching Crandel would end this, but it seems as bad here as it did on the road to the west."

The pilgrim leader is shaking with emotion. "We are simple folk!  We seek only to honor the Blue Lady! We have harmed no one, taken nothing, done nothing unsuual at all! We stick to the road, camp at night, eat the food we brought with us. Why would these monsters trouble our path?"

Another sob escapes him, "You will excuse us now, please. We thank you for your aid, truly. But we must pray over our fallen and, Lysora forgive us, we must leave them. We have not the strength to dig holes or gather stones and have learned the cruelty of or enemy—if we tarry to dig, we may as well lie down in the holes with them, for our doom is sealed. We will not survive another attack. Our only chance is to get as close to the Shrine as we can, and hope that their attention is diverted for long enough for us to escape their notice."

He moves away from the party and the surviving pilgrims join him to pray over their dead comrades. Gib looks sideways at Aranwen before motioning the others to gather about. 

"They are intent on continuing to their shrine, three days hence," Gib states, turning his body so that he might still keep an eye on their surroundings whilst communicating with his fellows.

Cedric asks, "Is anyone hurt that could use the ministrations of a cleric?"

"There are a few that I bound wounds for and some with deeper bodily injuries," the priest of Therassor skims the horizon with sharp eyes. "If you feel it appropriate to call upon Solanis' gifts for such a thing, I'll not attempt to stop you."

Cedric is horrified at the carnage and calls on the Solanis to steady himself, "Was anyone taken by the creatures? I think these people need our help."

"Not that was reported," again the warrior priest answers, "and these pilgrims most assuredly need assistance." He is cautious in offering up anything further allowing, instead, the others in the party to speak their mind. He'll offer his counsel and let Aranwen decide for them, such is the chain of command.

“Let them help themselves,” Ch’dau rumbles, the repressed growl tinging his words as he swipes a paw dismissively in the direction of the disheveled group of priests, “They haven’t the courage or honor to bury their own dead and they flee from battle like scared rabbits! Even if we were to escort them, should another attack come, they’d likely skitter right into the jaws of their doom!”

The Kazari’s growling rises along with his irritation and, in that instant, very nearly escapes from behind his pointed teeth… but not quite… Instead, it comes out as yet another derisive snort as the big cat’s eyes tear away from the sobbing adherents of the Blue Lady.

“Besides,” he adds, trying to tamp down his frustration as he gestures in the direction of the party’s mages, “Atharis and the little one are expected in Crandel by their order… In hours, not days… That is where our duty lies.”

"These men will die without blades to protect them," Kithran notes, her voice flat. The words hold no disgust or worry; rather, she states it as fact. "They have already died."

She replaces her daggers in their sheaths and folds her arms across her chest, her eyes slowly sliding over each of her companions before cutting in the direction of Ch'dau. "There will be guilt if we allow them to leave without protection."

"You are all correct," Gib states quietly, eyes still scanning their surroundings. "Lives are at stake, but something the pilgrim said bothers me. He said that he had hoped that reaching Crandel would offer refuge, but that this road is the same as to the West. They travel the same road as we, yet in the opposite direction which leads me to believe they have already come from Crandel." Glancing at Ch'dau, Gib continues, "Atharis and Midge have an appointment with members of their order in Crandel; this too is true. If these refugees have come from Crandel because of a lack of safety, I would surmise that the town has fallen prey to similar attacks which would mean that either we are too late to participate in the battle, or that the battle is ongoing."

Looking back towards the prayerful followers of the Blue Lady, Gib continues his wordy conclusion, "There are but a few lives here, and these people are intent on achieving a shrine three days off still with the omission that they are attacked one, maybe twice, a night. In Crandel, there are many, many more lives and if they are fending off attacks of a similar nature, we are better serving the Kingdom by continuing on to the village and helping to save lives there."

Now focusing on Aranwen, the warrior priest offers his advice, "I propose we see if these pilgrims can offer us any insight into the state of affairs in Crandel. Should the people of there be fighting for their lives, I would suggest we make haste and join them. If these poor sods are what remains of the village—" Gib grabs the holy symbol dangling about his neck and kisses it, "—then we know that these are the lives we should attempt to save."

Listening to the advice and comments from each of her companions, Aranwen is unsure of what to do. Just like the weather, the proper course they should take is foggy, unclear. Each path is troubled, potentially dangerous. The pilgrims are in desperate need of protection, however, the path ahead of them MAY be relatively safe. The entire town of Crandel may be in danger, possibly fighting for their lives right at this very moment...

Aranwen's face hardens with resolve. "We must inquire of these pilgrims as to the state of Crandel. If they passed through the town recently, they should know if the situation is dire. If Crandel is in danger or overrun by these fiends, or if the pilgrims are unaware of its condition, then we should travel there with all haste."

With that, Aranwen moves off to find the pilgrim leader. She finds him praying over one of his fallen comrades. Waiting respectfully for the pilgrim to finish his prayers, Aranwen then asks "Good sir, if I may inquire of you again, in your travels, did you pass through Crandel? If so, what was the state of things there? Were they under attack from the same creatures we encountered here?"

The bearded pilgrim shakes his head at the bladesinger's query.  "We did not enter the town itself.  We lack the coin to pay the road toll, let alone for an Inn; also, our journey is pressing, so we did not tarry."

He continues.  "The palisade itself was strong, though, and the guards at the gate seemed unworried.  Brother Keldwin bought plums from a cart near the gate; if the town were besieged, I would not think that the vendor would be hawking fruit outside the walls. No, I do not think the evil from the road had entered the town."

Listening to the pilgrim leader's response, Aranwen is somewhat put at ease. "Thank you, my friend." she says to the pilgrim, "I need to speak with my companions about where our journey will lead us next." After a moment's thought, she adds "If it so happens that our paths align with yours, would you be willing to have us accompany you as far as the Shrine?" 

The pilgrim shakes his head.  "The Shine is holy, and the ground is consecrated.  We travel to offer sacrifice and worship.  Outsiders may not enter the grove itself.  We could have you walk with us a portion, but you could not go all the way."

Aranwen nods in agreement "That is understandable. Of course, we would never intrude upon your order's sacred ground." Turning back in the direction of his companions, she adds "This may not be an issue at all, since our path is not yet decided. We very well might be parting ways at this point. You will have our decision shortly."

Returning to his companions, Aranwen reports to them what was said "It would seem that the town of Crandel is, or at least was, under no immediate threat from these monster attacks. The pilgrims did not enter the town, but passing by, saw that the palisade was strong, the guards seemed unconcerned, and the merchants outside the walls were operating as normal. The pilgrims would not object to our protection on the road, however they are concerned that we keep our distance from their Holy Shrine."

Looking around at each of her companions, studying their reactions, Aranwen says "I know the mind of a few of you on this matter" she smirks at Ch'dau "Now I would like to know everyone's opinion on the path we should take. Do we accompany the pilgrims as far as they'll have us? Do we head directly to Crandel? Is there another option that we have not yet considered?"

It didn’t surprise Ch’dau in the least that a number of his companions showed concern in regard to the Lysoran pilgrims’ distant fate...

 The deity Solanis, to whom Cedric was devoted, was the god of Light and Life, after all, so it made sense that the frumpy little human would tilt in the direction of providing healing and continued protection to Lysora’s parishioners; he likely saw it as ensuring that their light and lives would continue, at least, until the hajjis* were borne to their ultimate destination.

Gib’s god, Therrasor, too, embodied ideals which would certainly prompt the warrior-priest to give consideration to the Lysorans’ continued protection beyond his own goals and comforts; in his human mind, the righteous and honorable thing to do was to, at least, offer.

Even Kithran had conceded that these men would die without blades to protect them, though she seemed to share more than a little of Ch’dau’s own pragmatism when she appended her appraisal with the words “they have already died.” This practicality of thought was likely one of the reasons he got on so well with the half-sylvari thief (life-debt notwithstanding, of course).

The mages had been more or less silent on the matter, thus far, but the alternating looks of horror, disgust, concern, and trepidation that flitted across each of their features, spoke enough to the kazari’s eyes that their words were unnecessary.

…Crouching in the huddle of his companions, Ch’dau watched and listened as the discussed the matter. Aranwen drifted back and forth between their clusters more than once in order to engage with the Lysoran leader but, at last, returned to report all she’d gleaned from the bearded follower of the Blue Lady. “I know the mind of a few of you on this matter,” the bladesinger offered with a pointed smirk in the kazari’s direction, Now, I would like to know everyone’s opinion on the path we should take. Do we accompany the pilgrims as far as they’ll have us? Do we head directly to Crandel? Is there another option we have not yet considered?”

For an instant, felinoid eyes followed Sylvari ones from face to face in their small counsel, awaiting the input of his native Antaronian companions before offering his own. As each did so, Ch’dau’s gaze flitted to where the Lysorans prayed over their fallen and back again, trying to consider options that he might not, were he in Capasha. After a time of listening to his friends’ considerations, the kazari rose from his crouch and heaved something of a sigh. “As you have said, Aranwen,” the cat grumbled, “you know my mind on this. I say we leave them to their own. The road behind us has been quiet and dull unto now and that is the road ahead of them. I think they neither want nor require our protection and, likely, with their females gone, they are hoping these creatures abandon their pursuit of them in favor of us.” The man-beast offers an almost apologetic glance in Kith’s direction at that statement but it is only a glance and it is fleeting… He would die before he allowed her to be taken… He shrugged his massive shoulders, then, and, by way of compromise, chuffed out what seemed a fair compromise in his mind; “If it is truly your intent to see these men to their shrine, I say we take them with us to Crandel so that Midge and Atharis do not delay their summons. Then, once their counsel has finished, if such is your order, brave Sylvari, I’ll not argue escorting the hajjis to their shrine.”

((OOC: * hajjis = “pilgrims” in the Kazari))

Scratching at his beard, Gib considers the situation while keeping an open ear to his companions' opinions. He doesn't disagree with Ch'dau but he also doesn't expect everyone to be a warrior, or even have a fighting spirit. There are sheep and there are sheepdogs, he muses. However, Aranwen reports that the pilgrims are intent on still achieving their shrine and the party not being welcome within the hallowed grounds of the destination should they reach it at all—while something the priest understands—is a deterrent. Kith is right as well. These pilgrims are practically already dead. As much as the cleric hates to admit it, he has been privy to hard decisions made by military commanders relating to situations where personnel have to be sacrificed for the greater good of the objective. Inevitably, those same commanders seek spiritual relief through confession but the decisions are made, nonetheless.

Suppressing the urge to wince as pain shoots through his ribs and the muscles of his back as he shifts the weight of his shield, Moreno chimes in, "I concur. They are intent on foregoing the safety of Crandel and continuing a potentially harrying journey while possibly being beset nightly by foul creatures... so be it. The road we have traveled was bereft of such inconveniences as this unearthly fog, so there's a chance that they'll be safe enough. 

"I agree with Ch'dau," Moreno "Gib" Enderedre offers a resigned smile. "We should continue on to Crandel and ensure our arcane brothers make their meet. And, we should do so with haste so as not to invite another press from our new-found enemies. I'll already be feeling this battle for the better part of a week, Therassor be praised."

Discussions are made, but eventually, it is decided that the road for the pilgrims should be safe enough - especially in light of the obligation of the party mages, and the fact that the Lysorans would only bear escort for so far.

Poultices are applied, wounds are bandaged, food and water are shared.  The starving pilgrims are pathetically grateful for the good that is done for them, though as the two groups diverge - with three of the pilgrims obviously hurting even more than ever before - it does cross Cedric's mind that perhaps it would have been seemly to share the gift of the Radiant Father's healing.  Hopefully, no evil will cross their paths, as even the most optimistic individual must know that this sorry lot could scarce withstand a single kobold.

Nearly two hours later, darkness has fallen on the road, though the sticky mist has not dissipated in the least... and if anything, the odd sounds are more frequent.  Once or twice, the party could swear that the sound of maniacal giggling can be heard nearby, but no further attack is forthcoming.

Suddenly, a wooden palisade seems to materialize directly in front of the companions. A lone guard stands at the gate, lantern at the ready. "Right, then!" he calls, hand nervously clenching a spear. "Who goes there? State your business!"

Once satisfied with the response, he lowers his spear and examines the group. "Fair enough. Ye may enter the town of Crandel, but cause no trouble.  The road toll is a falchion each..." his gaze fixes on Ch'dau and he pauses and murmurs under his breath.  "Sweet Mother Miellyah..."  The guard swallows nervously.

"The road toll for normal folk is a falchion each.  The beast will pay five falchions, and agree to keep 'is blades in peace knots while inside these walls." He grips the spear tighter.  "Do we understand one another?"

Two hours on the road to Crandel, darkness has fallen, and the obscuring mists completely surround the companions as they trudge down the track. The odd sounds and fleeting shadows are abundant. Even the sound of maniacal giggling can be heard, setting Aranwen on edge as they near the town.

Suddenly, a wooden palisade seems to materialize directly in front of the companions. A lone guard stands at the gate, lantern at the ready. "Right, then!" he calls, hand nervously clenching a spear. "Who goes there? State your business!"

Aranwen quickly speaks up "Good sir, we are travelers, weary from the road, and in need of shelter from this god forsaken weather."

(OOC- Aranwen will use her Etiquette skills in dealing with the Guard)

Satisfied with the response, he lowers his spear and examines the group. "Fair enough. Ye may enter the town of Crandel, but cause no trouble.  The road toll is a falchion each..." his gaze fixes on Ch'dau and he pauses and murmurs under his breath.  "Sweet Mother Miellyah..."  The guard swallows nervously.

"The road toll for normal folk is a falchion each.  The beast will pay five falchions, and agree to keep 'is blades in peace knots while inside these walls." He grips the spear tighter.  "Do we understand one another?"

Aranwen moves over to Ch'dau and says "Beast you say? There is no one I would trust with my life more than this beast, as you call him. He is honorable and true. The town is safer because of his presence. However, I would be careful not to trample that honor. He will not forget such transgressions."

It had been nearly two hours since they had left the tormented troupe of Lysorans behind them, fed and funded. The mist had thickened in that time, it seemed, and brought the full of the night’s darkness with it as it encroached. The strange sounds and shadows, too, had persisted, perhaps even increased, as they travelled this last leg of the road to Crandel and, each time the strains of maniacal giggling echoed around them, the kazari felt his joints ache, recalling what a single bite and scratch from the chittering monster had done. Ch’dau’s vision was keen in the dark and, as they marched, his watchful gaze swept from side to side, ever vigilant for another attack from the undead creatures but, thankfully, none came. At last, the muddy track had brought them to their destination; the sturdy wooden palisade of Crandel seeming to materialize from the mists, it’s gate and it’s guard preventing the party from going any farther.

“Right, then!” The guard called out, nervously gripping his spear and lifting his lantern to peer through the dark; “Who goes there? State your business!”

“Good sir, we are travelers,” Aranwen responded diplomatically to the guard’s challenge, “and in need of shelter from this gods-forsaken weather.”

Satisfied by the bladesinger’s answer, the guard seems to relax a fraction. “Fair enough,” he said, his spear lowering as he moves a step closer to examine the road-weary group, “Ye may enter the town of Crandel, but cause no trouble. The road toll is one falchion each…”

The sentry’s gaze met Ch’dau’s just then and, for an instant, it seemed his words had failed him. But only for an instant… “Sweet Mother Miellyah,” he murmured under his breath before swallowing nervously and finding his voice again.

“The road toll for normal people is a falchion each,” he reiterated, the grip on his spear tightening once more, “The beast will pay five falchions and agree to keep ‘is blades in peace knots while inside these walls. Do we understand one another?”

A short, rumbling sigh escaped the kazari, then, and he wordlessly began binding his blades. This was not the first time he’d encountered such prejudice since his arrival on Antaron’s shores nor, he suspected, would it be the last. He had just begun to tie the peace knot over his second blade when Aranwen stepped to his side in a noble gesture of defense.

“Beast you say,” the bladesinger challenged, “There is no one I would trust with my life more than this beast, as you call him. He is honorable and true. The town is safer because of his presence. However, I would be careful not to trample that honor. He will not forget such transgressions.”

Aranwen’s defense of him prompted Ch’dau’s tail to swish happily behind him and, as he finished tying the last of the knots over his weapons, he rested a one massive paw on the Sylvari’s shoulder by way of thanks as the other reached for his coin purse. “All is well, Aranwen,” the big cat rumbled, his hand lifting from the elf’s shoulder and moving to dip into the pouch of coins nestled in the other, “I am not unfamiliar with this beast tax.”

Ch’dau’s eyes gleam with reflected lantern-light as they fix on the guardsman and his fingers come out of the pouch with three silver coins pinched between them. Affecting some semblance of a human smile (a thing that his own people might take as a challenge given the bearing of teeth) he offers the coins over to the monkey-faced soldier. “Three,” he rumbles from behind his fangs, “A falchion deducted for each of these ridiculous knots you wished me to tie. Agreed?”

He senses the guard’s trepidation, almost as thick as the mist, as he waits for the man to take the proffered coins. “The good folk of this town have naught to fear from this beast,” Ch’dau assured the hesitant sentry, still from behind the toothy smile, “it is a good offer, no?”

((OOC: Not going for any truly overt intimidation, here, but, given the smile, there is perhaps some subtle bit in play. The display of teeth intended to show the guard just how silly it is to require that Ch’dau bind his blades. He’s not so much threatening as haggling. ))

The gate guard responds in a very serious tone and bows his head.  "Please forgive me, milord.  I do not mean to offer offense to anyone's honor.  You must understand, milord... I am but a simple watchman from a simple town, 'oo has drawn the short straw for the graveyard shift."

His gaze then locks on that of the sylvari.  "You see, milord, the law 'ere is that all travelers who are citizens of the kingdom must pay the road toll of one falchion, while foreigners must pay two.  Now, milord, a simple man such as miself might miss the fact that milord 'as terribly pointy ears for a subject of King Jarom, might p'raps mistake yon 'alfling for a child traveling with 'is pa.  It is dark after all, with evil weather afoot; if a simple man like miself were to miss those, naught would blink an eye."

His eyes flick towards Ch'dau in gesture.  "But milord, if'n I were to ignore yon 'airy beast, the captain would 'ave me 'ead.  Even a blind man can see the 'e's no citizen 'o the kingdom... not 'o any kingdom I've 'eard of.  Fact is, milord, 'im being charged a road toll is an honor to 'im, an honor for which 'e can think milord and the 'oly men with which 'e travels.  Elsewise, 'e might fine 'isself lookin' at a mess of spear 'eads instead."

Nonplussed, Ch'dau attempts to haggle the price, but the gate guard is having none of it.  With remarkable fortitude - truly, the skinny man barely shakes in the face of the kazari who stands more than foot taller than him - he holds his ground.  "P'raps the offer is good, p'raps it idn't.  But the road toll, cat man, is five falchions.  And truly, the law 'olds that all travelers should peace knot their weapons and unstring any bows.  So the lot 'o ye - tie them up now, quick like.  Pay tha toll, and get in off of this road and out of tha evil night."

An honor, my furry flanks, Ch’dau thought, snorting softly in the wake of the guard’s justification, it is a fine levied in the face of fear, no more, no less.

Still, the Silver Cat could not help but be impressed by the sentry’s steadfastness and a faint chuckle followed the irritated snort. There had been plenty of towns which had refused him admittance, at all, over the years and Ch’dau could easily recall camping alone outside the walls of many a city while his companions enjoyed the comforts to be found within. So, despite his annoyance at the custom, the kazari knew all too well the truth borne in the guard’s words.

“Very well,” the cat man chuffed, withdrawing his hand and dropping the three silvers back into his purse, “five it is.” His luminous gaze let go of the guard for a moment, peered into the leather pouch cradled in his hand, and his fingers followed. When they emerged, again, there was a single, golden Royal pinched between them.

“You honor your king and country, rrow’ka*,” he said, offering the coin over to the stalwart sentry, “This should cover the toll for us all, yes? And provide something extra in recognition of your boldness.”

((OOC: *rrow'ka = "brave one" in kazari))

The gate guard gapes in surprise at Ch'dau's action, and he stammers in response at the golden coin pressed into his hand.  "Er.. yes, yes it will.  Cover them all, I mean." The guard ducks his head.  "My thanks to you, cat man.  May the gods watch over you and yours this night."

The sentry glances back over his shoulder, up on the palisade, and speaks out in a loud voice.  "Let them in, Les."  At his bidding, the gate is unlatched from inside, and swings outward.

As the party begins to move inside, he speaks a final time.  "The Nicked Shill be straight ahead - the only Inn in town.  Ye ought to be able to find a bed there, as well as food an' ale."

*******************************************************

The dirt streets of Crandel are quiet. Many of the buildings and homes are dark, but those with lit lanterns or torches shine with an almost otherworldly light against the sticky fog. As you press forward, you come across one lone, well lit building, and as you come closer, you see a wooden signboard bearing the depiction of a worn, damaged copper coin - the Nicked Shill.

The interior of the inn is well lit, and the atmosphere is fairly bustling, if not truly friendly. Several long tables run most of the length of the common room, with benches lining either side. The tables are by and large occupied by folk in plain garb such as you might see on farmers or laborers, and these locals peer at you with less than hospitable expressions; you could swear that conversation dies down upon your entry.  When the gazes settle on Ch'dau, the voices turn from less friendly to outright hostility; angry murmurs can be heard.

"Maybe you should go get the Watch!" someone announces in a stage whisper to a comrade. 

"Who let a monster in here?" another demands.

Fortunately, that chain of conversation is quelled by a large, burly, bearded man in an apron.  "Ya sorry lot cut that out now, ya hear me?" he bellows in a deep baritone.  "That be no monster - 'es a kazari!  Not only are they a damn sight better warriors than most 'o those what drift through 'ere, but ya can take one at 'is word." 

He points a finger at Ch'dou.  "Ya 'ave coin, cat man?" he asks loudly.  "Are ya 'ere to cause trouble?"

OOC: assuming that the kazari answers in the affirmative and negative, respectively...

"Right, then!" he bellows.  "Nya, get the kazari an' 'is friends sommat ta eat an' drink.  The rest 'o you lot, mind yer own business, or leave - now."  With the admonition, the big man reaches behind the counter and drawns forth a large, heavy cudgel, which he casually leans against.  A hush falls over the room, and it seems that no one will take the big man up on his offer, but after a long moment, two men dressed in the uniform of the town watch stand.  One finishes his ale in a single gulp, the other spits on the ground, and the two leave, muttering and casting dark glances back over their shoulders. 

But that seems to be the end of the drama - for now.  Soon enough, conversation picks back up around the room, though people seem to alternate between outright staring at Ch'dau and the party or pointedly ignoring them.

Soon, a young, befreckled brunette maid greets you warmly enough, and directs you to one of the few open spots - which is in a corner table unoccupied by locals. "Welcome to our inn, travelers," she speaks in an accent very similar to the gate guard's. "Special tonight is pork stew with peppers; we may still have some potatoes. We 'ave strong ale an' small beer," and with a measured glance at the sylvari, "an' I may be able to scare up some fall wine; mayhap there's some left. We've got good bread and cheese, but it's too early in the season for much in the way of fruits."

After taking your orders, she leaves.

There are two occupants at the end of your table; both are humans in travelers' garb. One is a tall, stubble-faced, sinewy man dressed in leather armor and a brown cloak, wearing a sword at his belt. He sits easily, though you notice his eyes periodically sweep the room.

The other is an attractive blonde woman dressed in form fitting black clothing with a purple cloak. She wears a broad-bladed knife at her belt, as well as some sort of silver pendant at her throat.

The man's eyes narrow at you as you take your seat and his hand subconsciously drifts closer to the handle of his blade, though after a few moments, he gives a curt nod and appears to slightly relax.

The woman, on the other hand, seems to view you with more interest. While she doesn't truly smile, her expression is not unfriendly. Upon closer inspection, you realize that her left cheek bears several silvered scars, one of which begins at the corner of her mouth and ends right next to her blue eye.

The serving wench is reasonably prompt, bringing the food in a timely manner; the fare is simple, but tasty enough. By this point, the locals seem to have grown more or less bored with the novelty of the party, and conversation around the room appears to be in full swing again.

The woman at your table moves as if to speak a greeting; the man seems about to object, but she silences him with a glare. "Well met, fellow travelers," she speaks politely, her accent leaving no doubt that she is no local. "I do not recall seeing you on the road, so I would think that you did not come from the west. Have you any news from the road to the east?"

Cedric is relieved to be sitting down in an inn especially after the drama of the day and the tenseness of our entry into the city.

"Well met travellers! Excuse me. I am starved." Then he digs into the food after a prayer to Solanis. It has been too long on the road with rations.

Cedric is impressed that Ch'dau handled that so well. He is so fierce in a battle. So multi-faceted.

I am assuming that Cedric did not have to peace-tie his staff.