Idraenel enters the tavern silently, two hands coming up to unclasp his wet travelling cloak as he hangs it on a peg near the wall. The weather was especially awful tonight, as to be expected with the changing of the seasons. Truth be told, this Inn wouldn’t be his first choice. It lacked a certain ‘je ne sais qoui’ the Sin’dorei Magister usually sought out in his accommodation… but then any port in a storm.<br/><br/><br/>Finding a seat next to the fire, he settles down too warm his damp robe and frozen bones. When a bartender passes he’s all too happy to shuffle a few silver coins onto her platter in return for a hot whiskey. As she leaves to fetch his drink he’s left with a few moments to himself, which he decides to use to glance about the room and take in his surroundings.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>