The barman, confident that there would be no more visitors to this particular establishment until the dawn hours of the morning, had retired to his own small rooms, hopefully, Elandris speculated, to begin work on the map/document he had recovered from the Orc messenger.  Peering into his own mug, he was unsurprised to find it empty, save for a thin ring of foam coating the bottom. Quietly pushing it away across the rough, but oiled countertop, he half-turned in his seat and hazarded another glance at the other man, a weary-looking individual who nonetheless carried himself with an air of pride ensconced in sorrow. He did not possess the customary slump of the shoulders so common among tired old warriors, but neither did he hold himself upright with the zealous vigor of an arrogant invalid intent on hiding the fact that he was no longer suited for battle. To the contrary, this man's resigned eyes still held the cold fire of competence, as well as awareness and pride of that competence. He was, the Warden mused to himself quietly, the epoch of a nobleman, or at least a Knight. With vague amusement, Elandris noted that the girl attending him seemed of the mind to speak to him, unable to work up the courage or boldness. He did not blame her for her apparent interest in the other man; despite the aura of battle and death that surrounded him, he possessed the virtue of a kindly face and soft, unaccusing slate-blue eyes.<br/>Elandris did not associate with irrelevant persons more than necessary. It was difficult enough to keep a low-profile as it was; anytime he visited a location he usually left at least one person dead. There had been in his travels only a handful of occasions during which he had established friendships with others, and they had invariably ended with -<br/>He cut the trail of the thought from his mind with the efficiency of the swift strike of a knife. There was no point in dwelling on past events, events that had come and gone like leaves in the wind. Albeit, leaves trailing blood in the breeze as they were carried along, but leaves all the same. Elandris allowed himself to feel as little useless emotion as possible; it interfered with his mind, concerning what he had done and much of what he was about to do. He was not a coward; it was the last thing any man would have said to him. He simply did not wish to reminisce a great deal on his own past actions, unless reflection upon them would induce positive effects upon his next. Terrible things must be done in the name of Good, and there were too few willing to pay the price in the irreparable damage done to their minds, their very souls. All actions have consequences, and Elandris was aware that he had racked up quite a tab on himself. But that list of crimes and their expected payments was a burden on his shoulders that he had removed from someone else's. Everything is paid for in the end. Some people just pay the others' bills.<br/>And so it was completely against principle that the Warden slid from his barstool and made his way across the empty wooden floor until he reached the weary warrior's table, edging into a chair opposite the other man, who was currently sipping the last drops of tea from his small cup. Elandris, due to his usual aversion to conversation, did not feel comfortable with immediately plunging into a question-and-answer session. He merely leaned forwards with his elbows on the table, beginning conversationally. "It is unusual to see a man of your bearing in such a place as Billian's Rest. What brings you here?"<br/>Inwardly, he criticized himself for his bluntness, but realized that any expression of reassurance would merely seem suspicious in the eyes of an observant fellow such as this man obviously was. He could only hope that his words would be taken as they were; simple introductions.