fellow traveler

Lancelyn Green

The atmosphere of the tavern is warm and cheery. A few well-placed lamps hanging from the ceiling, accompanied by a glowing fireplace, attempt to throw light into the somewhat dim room. Serving wenches bustle in and out of the kitchen door to the north, clearing tables and serving food briskly, calling out orders to each other occasionally over the din. Prinn, the barman, polishes a rather antique-looking counter idly when he is not speaking with customers. There is a menu on the wall behind him, along with several bottles and glasses. There is a door to the south that leads back out into the Anteroom.

Colin walks into the tavern at Lanisen’s side, his cheeks red from the cold.

Lanisen casts a quick nervous glance around the room as he steps through the door. He carefully taps the snow from his boots at the doorway and follows Colin.

A son of adam with cloudy gray eyes sits at a table near the fireplace holding a harp, which he runs his fingers over, pulling a quiet, aimless arpeggiated chord progression from its strings. His glance is focused on nothing in particular, at least discernably, but the soft smile on his face is contented.

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