Kira whispers towards Haftor, "His friend just died, he doesn't need a berating." Turning her head upwards towards Omast, she adds to Jarrek's words, "I might have something to help with washing that off if you come down Omast."
Jarrek nods at Kira and lowers his own voice to respond to Haftor. "And that attitude isn't going to win us a friend here. We're trying to get information, not do an inspection."
He smiles back up at Omast and gestures at Kira as he raises his voice again. "She's right. It'll be easier for us to light your lantern if you just come down."
Haftor grumbles, "My...attitude?" He considers a sermon on Torag's values, then decides it would be counterproductive. He takes a step back to let the discussion play out, a disappointed look on his face.
The inebriated guard slowly climbs back up to the battlement and over it. A minute or so later, he comes staggering out of the tower, clutching the door frame tightly. "Sho, whe, ah, where's that...where's that...what were you talking about?" Kira, you're concerned about his safety near open flames, at least if he tries to breathe on them.
Kira whispers to the group in the minute it takes Omast to get down from the tower, "We wont be able to get much from him while he's drunk, maybe we should try to get him into a bed and I can make him some Kindness tomorrow."
Kira comes up closer to Omast once he's joined the group, "We were talking about going to get some rest. We can do a lot better work tomorrow right Omast?
Jarrek nods at Kira. "We're staying at the Longhouse and were just about to head back. Are you going that way, Sergeant?"
Lidda stops to look at the lantern, feeling a curious stirring inside of her. It suddenly flares up, lit as bright as a torch. Surprised, Lidda lets out a small scream and stumbles backwards into Jarrek.
Omast starts at the light, then returns to being led back to the Ramblehouse. "Could ush--use another drink. Keep from rememembering...." He peers at Kira, a spark of clarity returning briefly to his eyes. "I was the first one there, you know. Saw poor, young Rodrik, that magnificent b@stard, laying there with the knife in his hand and his blood all over." A tear runs down one weathered cheek, and he wails, "Why'd he go and do something like that? You mark my wordsh...it was that crippled oaf of a half-orc made him do it. Him and his lying prophecies."
Svarog, who had worn an expression of noncommittal and remained quiet as he limped about, reached out to grasp Omast's shoulder to catch his attention now.
"Which half-orc would that be, Sergeant?"
Haftor gives Lidda a curious look, not for the first time. When he hears Omast mention something about a prophetic male half-orc, his ears perk up. There might be useful information to be gained from the grieving man after all, even while he is in his cups.
"Any half-orc is trouble...whole damn lot of them...."
It takes a bit of time to redirect him back to the topic at hand . "He's warming a sickbed in the Sanctuary that could be used by someone who truly needs it. Rodrik spent far too much time visiting with him." It doesn't take a lot of ranks in Sense Motive to hear the bitterness and jealousy in Frum's voice.
Kira steps up closer to Omast and puts a hand across his shoulder, "Come on Omast, you need some new drink, and you need to be ready for tomorrow." Kira tries to helpfully lead Omast to the Longhouse and hopefully to a bed, but not so quickly that the conversation can't continue. Making sure Omast doesn't stumble though she struggles a bit with supporting his weight if he leans on her. "Do you know what Rodrik was visiting the half-orc for?"
He shakes his head a bit too energetically and has to pause while the dizzy spell passes. "I don't know. I warned him--'Half-orcs are trouble,' I said--but he wouldn't listen. Should've done something...my fault..." He breaks down sobbing.
Lidda stops to look at the lantern, feeling a curious stirring inside of her. It suddenly flares up, lit as bright as a torch. Surprised, Lidda lets out a small scream and stumbles backwards into Jarrek.
Jarrek's a wall of muscle as Lidda bumps into him. He looks impressed. "Did you do that, Lidda? That's damn useful. Good job."
---
He shakes his head a bit too energetically and has to pause while the dizzy spell passes. "I don't know. I warned him--'Half-orcs are trouble,' I said--but he wouldn't listen. Should've done something...my fault..." He breaks down sobbing.
Already half supporting the very drunk soldier, Jarrek does his best to comfort the grieving man. "It wasn't your fault, Omast. There's nothing you could have done." He nods at Kira. "We'll see you where you need to go."
Jarrek, you've heard that there's a half-orc named Katreza staying at the Sanctuary, and that he's supposed to be some sort of prophet. Also, given the degree of rancor he's shown when talking about half-orcs you sense that he's better off hearing that message from someone else.
(Assuming they get to the Ramblehouse.) "Well, tomorrow is another day. Torag willing, I'll return here bright and early."
Svarog, it's quite late, but you manage to find an acolyte at the Sanctuary. "Katrezra? I didn't see him when I came on duty, and I heard that he'd just up and disappeared before lunch. Left his bed made, though, so no one thinks anything serious happened to him."
Svarog frowned thoughtfully. "Who saw him last? Let me see where he was staying."
The people who might have talked to him last are all abed, and will be available the next morning. His cubicle is plain, with only a cot and a small chest with just a few items of clean clothing in it. The cot is neatly made up.
Jarrek grunts. "If I were fleeing after committing murder, I would try to make it look like nothing is out of the ordinary, too." He gets down on his knees to look under the bed. "We'll come back to talk to his neighbors tomorrow morning, but as long as we're here we might as well have a look."
There's nothing under the bed. At least, nothing that Jarrek sees (though he's pretty sure of the presence of the floor).
Lidda follows Jarrek's lead, poking her head under the bed and around the small cubicle. "What are we looking for?" she whispers curiously.
Lidda is pretty sure that there's nothing to find here. Katrezra was apparently quite fastidious in his personal life, and there are no personal effects to be found.
Jarrek shrugs as he stands up. "Anything. But it looks like this one didn't leave a convenient clue behind." He looks at the others.
"What do we say? Call it a night and come back in the morning?"
"Pity. Yes, let's go," Svarog grunted.
Kira nods and starts to head for the door, "I'll be with my sister at our house. I can't leave her there alone with my supplies for too long, shall we meet at the Sanctuary tomorrow morning?"
Jarrek nods. "We'll meet then, unless we're all murdered in our sleep at the Ramblehouse." He chuckles briefly before realizing no one else was laughing. "No, you're right. Too soon."
He looks at Lidda and Svarog. "Who wants a drink before bed?"
Lidda's eyes go wide at Jarrek's off-color remark. She nods gravely. "A drink...yes. I think I need one now."
"A drink for the living, to honor the dead," Svarog agreed, not cracking a smile.
Round 1:
Svarog
Jarrek
Assassins
If his longsword isn't there, he'll grab the dagger from under his pillow.
Svarog slashes from the bed and cuts down the assassin on him before standing. There's another one over Jarrek, and the Kellid doesn't notice any others.
Jarrek gasps as he's rudely awakened. He rolls away from the side he was stabbed on and reaches for his falchion laying on the floor near his bed. "Bastard!" Barely even looking, he sweeps the big blade out of its scabbard, the blade blazing with arcane fire as he takes a swipe up at his assailant.
Striking from prone throws the half-orc's attack off just enough that the assassin is able to dodge the blow. She stabs at Jarrek and connects again
Svarog reached out to grab the would-be assassin, but only managed to snatch his hand back before he lost a few fingers. "Grab him, Jarrek!"
"On second thought, kill her," the Kellid wheezed as the taste of blood crept up his throat. He had underestimated their attackers, and he had paid the price.
Roaring at the second attack and his own poor showing, Jarrek stumbles to his feet and swings again.