Loudly, the door to the whorehouse banged open, as Ja'Lir strode through. As was usual for anyone entering, one of the girls instantly walked towards him, to make sure he enjoyed his stay. A single withering glance from the paladin made her reconsider, however, and she quite promptly backed away. When the warrior strode up to the counter, where a scantily clad lady was performing acts more acurately described as 'entertainment', rather than actually tending the bar. As the onyx-skinned warrior halted beside the counter, however, the colour drained from the woman's face. He spoke in calm, soft tones, and yet he was clearly heard over even the dinn the drunk soldiers were making. 'There is a human with troll's blood here, where is that human?'

'W-Well, I can't-'

'If I were to kill every living being in this establishment, I would find the person I was looking for. Your answer will save me the trouble of cleaning blood from my blade, and you the trouble of being judged for your sin in the afterlife.' The tone of the palladin's voice was not one of anger, or intimidation, but rather a cold assertion of death.

'Room 12!'

Leaving the terrified 'bartender', Ja'Lir steps up the stairs, chainmail hauberk jungling with ever step. It had been a bluff, of course, he would not sully the name of the Blessed by committing a crime. Their standing in this city was bad enough. However, sometimes it was good to make use of the Blessed's bloody reputation, and his face could be devoid of emotion when he wished it to be. Which was, admittedly, pretty much always.

Unwilling to waste time, Ja'Lir kicked down the door to Room 12, the half-rotten wood easily giving way to his metal-clad foot. It crashed into the ground with a second bang, as the armoured figure strode into the room. His face was deep black, as was normal for those born in the great northern deserts. He wore a long chainmail hauberk, as well as thick plate boots and gauntlets. A helmet with an upturned visor rested on his head, protecting his scalp. A black and white tabard stretched down over his armor, the seven-pointed star of Trazyn emblazoned clearly in the center, a thick leather belt holding a long black sheat at his side. Combined with his height and muscle mass, he struck an imposing figure.

'Give the elf the glass.'

Having delivered his message, Ja'Lir turned on his heels, and walked away, eager to return to his post beside his mistress. She had a bad habit of underestimating the danger to herself in her scheming, and he constantly worried about her safety. Aside from her being a Prophet, he had grown rather fond of her over the years, as she was able to look right through his stony face, and with her he had no need to speak his feelings to have them known.

With five long strides, Ja'Lir was already at the staircase, heading down.