You launch into the most heartrending plea that you can conjure up on such short notice. The disasters at the theater, and their potential to shut your doors forever. Diar's fears for her daughter, fastening the shutters but shivering at the shadows creeping in. Your own fears for everyone you care about. It's a good speech, you're dimly aware even as you're on the verge of tears. You'd be proud to have written it onstage. Liathar frowns and fingers the hilt of the pretty dress sword he's wearing in place of his usual heavier and more practical blade. "You make yourself very convincing," he says. "But if there truly is a curse, if we truly are weighed down with such a burden, we must try to forget it tonight. In the morning there will be time to find out more and perhaps speak to that scholar my brother pays such mind to." He claps you on the shoulder. "Come, Master Osberht. Can we not speak of something more pleasant?"