Verrik's eyes crack open, trying to look about the room while moving as little as possible. He was not entirely certain where he was, nor did he entirely remember how he got here. One thing which still stood out was the feeling of intense dread he felt before passing out. That still lingered with him, even though it was fading. A tavern... ah, not so bad. Maybe things weren't as bad as they had at first seemed. He sits up slowly, his chest still hurting from the extended run. His grey eyes sweep over the room now that he has righted himself, taking in his surroundings more fully.<br/><br/>His fingers run through his short, and now messy hair. The lapse in dignity would only be momentary, least if he had any say in the matter. Deep breaths work to calm him, and his composure begins to wander back. His black wool outfit is straightened next, the cut of it conservative and of a fashion which would've been considered stylish a year ago. Next he checks to make sure his sword is there, and his expression becomes one of relief to find that is still the case.<br/><br/>Pushing himself up, Verrik wanders over to the bar. His flight was thirsty work, and as much as he loathed the expense he was going to get a beer or two before leaving. That and it would likely go a long way toward easing any unpleasant gossip about him and what must have transpired to get him here. "Um, excuse me. I'll have a couple of... whatever you'd drink." He says to whoever is behind the bar, leaning forward with his elbows on its surface.<br/>