"It's a wonder they don't trip over those cloaks," you observe. "Then again, they seem to have little cause to move at all. What a life to be a city guard, eh?"
"Three meals a day and a seat worn smooth in the alehouse," agrees Drazha as you draw near to the door. "But it is not the life destined for us, whether we would wish it or not."
The guard on the left takes a step toward you and, with a speed and confidence that belies his appearance, points his spear at you, causing you to stop short. "Begone, stranger," he says. "Standing watch is trying enough without having to scuff my boots kicking the likes of you back into the street." Nearby, his companion stifles a laugh.