Aarnr scowls.
Not that anyone is likely to notice for his normal expression is one of barely contained rage and incipient violence. But after being denied the chance to kill cultists, save for some vague hope that they might be found in yet another of these decadent havens where civilised folk cluster together in a disgusting and most likely unsanitary fashion, he is now faced with the prospect of talking to not one, but
two lots of guards. And like as not his companions' favoured method of interrogation will not involve blades at the throat, cutting bits off, or other such means of encouragement.
And while it's the priest's god-given duty to rid the world of guardsmen, along with other hell-hated creatures such as undead, arcanists (whatever those hedge-pigs are
1) and lawyers, he's fairly sure his friends will not share his views on such matters.
Oh, the burden imposed upon him by his grandmother's spirit to be nice is a heavy one indeed.
The scowl becomes a sulk. It is perhaps the best anyone can hope for.
1 a person professing special secret knowledge concerning ceramics, especially concerning the making of porcelain (from http://www.dictionary.com/browse/arcanist)