Oblivious to the tension building between the Rashemi and the Thayans, and the nationalities of either party for that matter, Roen found himself much more interested in the surface Elf who, without his help, would likely have earned a pair of bruised knees courtesy of the oaken gate. He'd had the misfortune to see a number of Drow in his time, but he'd never met one of their reportedly more benevolent cousins. He wondered at her purpose there, and supposed he would never know; a mage such as she - for that was all she could be, reading such mumbo-jumbo scrolls - could have many reasons to pass through town.

Still whistling even as he shot a disapproving glance at the back of the rude young man's head, Roen made his way up to the bar. It occurred to him as he leaned up against the wood and surveyed the patrons that he had never tasted alcohol either. He'd heard that the stuff made one sloppy, and had never dared steal any; sloppiness could be ill-afforded when the consequence for failure was torture and death. But he was hungry first and foremost, and hoped that good food could push the anxiety from his gut. "Goodsir, he said to the innkeeper with a wide smile, I'll have some food, please. And a room. With a bed, if it's not too much trouble."

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Daurily, wondering what he should say about her family's role in the coming attack...