Wilorin stood on the roof of the Hobbled Lamia festhall. It was a good vantage point to spy the comings and goings of sailors, labourers and more importantly merchants. The building he stood on was in dire need of repair and he had to be careful where he placed his feet or how he distributed his weight-even standing still he could hear the crackling of the rotting boards under his feet. Quietly, as to not give way that he was there, he adjusted his footing and his weight once again. Even though the odds of him not crashing through the second story ceiling was not in his favour, it was worth the risk as he could watch both The Tradeway and Furlough streets below. The routine of merchants was his main goal but as he studied the scene below for the third straight day he also noted those who came around in groups armed with swords and bows. They would enter shops, taverns or warehouses and leave a short while later grasping small sacks and smirking. They too, whom-ever they were and worked for also had a routine, and the half-elf rogue put to memory their routes and timings. Wilorin watched for another hour, hidden in the shadow of a large stalactite that would eventually and inevitably make contact with the wooden surface of the festhall. It was near evening and the yells of cheer from the rowdy crowd two stories below was growing louder with each passing moment. He carefully made his way back to the ground and into the Hobbled Lamia.