The room's furnishing was spartan, with only a mattress and a battered table taking up most of the space. Other than those two, there was a pile of metal parts and an object covered in a silk tablecloth. Vrael lounged on the mattress, examining two separate blueprints  and marking parts of the schematics. The air was stale and perfectly stuffy, perfect for a situation for someone to die from the lack of oxygen. Very soon he would have to open the windows or go out for a walk. He decided on the latter and left the small house, which was actually the second floor of a forge rented from a blacksmith who happened to be his acquaintance.<br/><br/>Vrael's cloak flapped around him as a light gust streamed down the street. Where to go now? The first thing he needed to go was to get his parched throat seen to so he decided to take a quick drink at the closest tavern before moving to the factory to collect the parts which he had ordered. He shouldered the door aside and ordered a bottle of cider. Out of habit, he began observing the tavern's patrons, his eyes dull over his bottle.