In the hours after midnight, the refugee camp has reached a semblance of peace. At a battered table in the old wayside inn, Omarlyn Khan and Morpheus sit opposite each other. The night’s quiet is disturbed only by the sound of Omarlyn’s whetstone sliding slowly over the blade of his dagger, causing it to glimmer briefly like snow on ice, and the uneven and roar of Bartholomew Rhum snoring while he lays sprawled across the bar at the other end of the room.
The cleric shifts in his drunken slumber, and a cascade of empty bottles tumbles from the bar top to shatter loudly on the floor. The thief pauses, his senses probing to hear if any of his companions upstairs have wakened from the racket. When no one stirs, he gives Morpheus a smile and puts his whetstone away, testing the edge of his blade with his thumb.
“Strange character that one.” Khan says conversationally. Morpheus looks to the bar and smiles.
“I like him.” the shadar-kai monk says, “but he strikes me as a man plagued with demons. Why else would he drink so much?”
“Maybe.” Omarlyn replies, “But he’s dependable, that’s for sure. And the elf?” Morpheus laughs loud.
“That one I trust with my life, but not my money purse, if that makes any sense.” the monk says. Omarlyn grins and nods in agreement.
“The dwarf?” the thief inquires.
“Not what I expect from a paladin, and brave. I can see why Warnard likes these men.” Morphues seems to stare off in thought.
“We’ve been friends for a long time Morpheus,” Omarlyn prods, “there aren’t many secrets you keep from me.”
“I keep my own secrets,” Morpheus says sternly, “as well as the secrets of others.”
“So dawn?” Omarlyn says after a long uncomfortable silence, changing the subject, “My thought is to hit the camp at dawn.”
“Agreed.” Morpheus says, “I didn’t like Jaeron to begin with. I like him even less now.”