Russ Trelyat was a fairly cold blooded and exceedingly practical man. He was a foreigner in these lands, unaccustomed to their ways, their language and whatever issues it was they dealt with. The only reason he was even in the building at all was that he had gotten lost and had managed to get his poor horse killed along the way. He was completely uninterested in the wounded man and the anger of the patrons, and he simply stared from a table in a corner, back against the wall and Nat handy of course, as the new arrival was first mobbed, then bashed to death by a mostly naked man to the great joy of the crowd which celebrated the deed in ways only the savage did.

It was all very strange, very frantic, and none of his business. He had seen worse, done worse and he was enjoying his drink. It was not the drink of his homeland, it lacked the bite and the strong smell, but it was good enough that it did the trick and so he was happy. So much so, in fact, that he chuckled under his breath and uttered a less than flattering word in his native tongue as a hooded man decided to intrude and be holier than thou at a lynch mob, one that had just killed a man and celebrated it. Russ Trelyat did not suffer fools gladly and this man was clearly some sort of fool, so he eagerly waited to see the crowd's violent reaction.

Before anything could happen, however, some kind of a witch broke into the establishment first posturing about her supposed position then talking about a dragon. Now that was a universal word, something he had reason to involve himself with. Ignoring the ignorant, smelly peasant's diatribe about burnings and offerings, he mechanically unwrapped Nat from its coverings and began checking that everything was in place and working correctly. It always was, its craftsmanship was exquisite, but it didn't hurt to make sure. He hoped he could gain something valuable from this all, or at least a way to leave this bizarre place in the middle of nowhere.