Once everyone heads off to bed, the night passes with realtively little excitement. Cham Larringfass, the Ramblehouse proprietor, chased everyone out of the common room around midnight - so that decent Trunauans can get some sleep - and the place quieted down quickly. The sleep of wine and ale consumed most of the celebrators, and the entire town nestled in for a good night's rest. All but the watch, of course.
The next morning, you are awoken just after dawn by a shriek. Anyone looking into the long hallway that hosted the private rooms saw a halfling maid, standing in the hallway, shrieking continuously and staring aghast into one of the rooms.
In the room, lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, lay Rodrik Grath. His wrists were deeply slashed, and a hopeknife was still held tightly in his right hand. Cham came running down the hallway, looked into the room, and blanched. He yelled, "Kaleb! Run and get the militia. Send 'em here as fast as they can get here. Tell them Roddy's killed himself." A young halfling nodded and ran out.
Cham looked at all the gawkers and said, "Well, what are you all standing about for? This isn't a circus set for your entertainment. A good man's death isn't something to stare at. Go about your busniess. We'll set breakfast out in a half-turn. Shoo!"
The morning dawns clear and cool. Roosters crow and the sun peeks over the mountain range to the east, as it does most mornings. No warning in the night of orcs on the horizon. All signs point to a great day.