“We were looking into some stories about disappearing priests,” the woman explains. Which immediately gets your attention – the priests who were supposed to help the Golem disembark were gone. Maybe you should listen a little more closely.
The man with her seems a bit surprised, but with some pointed nudges he tells the story. About how the wounded man was apparently a wizard, seemingly casting some spell to puppeteer a corpse, which kept the kidnapped priests in its thrall. Except the brand makes them think the man himself was under some strange influence, since it implies it was forced on him somehow.
That’s a lot to share with a bunch of strangers. And the sailors sure don’t seem very happy about it. You’re not even sure how you feel about it, even if it makes sense with some of the stuff you’ve seen tonight.
“And he’s just sitting there in the recovery house?” someone pipes up. “What if he wakes up?”
“We don’t even know the brand was put there by force,” says another. “Could’ve been some kind of loyalty test. You ask me, we should toss ‘im into the sea, let ‘im be Nual’s problem.”
“Now hang on a minute,” says someone else. Looks more like a resident. “That’s our house you’re talkin’ about. I dunno what this guy’s deal is, but he’s in our house, and we ain’t just handin’ one of our own over, even if we don’t know ‘im.”
That seems to be enough to start a ruckus. A ruckus where nobody’s really looking at you, since you’ve been quiet.
May as well get back on task. You slip way and continue towards the brewery.
With the pair of actors right behind you. That’s not something you were expecting. You can’t tell if they’re hostile, curious, or just heading in the same direction.
So you pause in an alleyway to see if they catch up. They stop and turn towards you.
“So… what’s your take on him?” the man asks.
“Well, he’s no actor, that’s for sure. Better than a rank amateur, but clearly hasn’t spent any time in any sort of acting company,” the woman replies. “Still, that’s a bit fancy for Marshguard armor, even if the colors are right. Hells, it’s fancy for any army I know of.”
“Yeah, he carries himself like a fighter, but he doesn’t have the discipline of a soldier,” the man agrees. “Some kind of sellsword, maybe?”
You feel a little irked that they’re speculating about you right to your face, but it’s not as if you can reasonably tell them the whole truth. Still, if you’re going to get them to cut this out, you should probably say something.