In fact, Menas was doing his best not to notice, but merely in an attempt to not himself be notice. The aspiring pathfinder was doubly out of water. It was not the Menas was not a social persons. He had spent many late nights in any number of cafes and small bars that rivet the border of the Merchant’s Quarter and Eastgate back in Absolam. However, none were - even by Absolamian standards - raucous gatherings. He had spent many late night with friends, smoking and playing games. Towers and Mage’s Maze among his favorites. So not only was the young magic-user in<em>tavern</em>, but in one inhabited by Ulfen, who were notorious drinkers, fighter and rabble rousers. The intersection of these two facts meant that the whole situation was overwhelming. For now, he merely tired to blend into the bar and not be spoken to by anyone, fearing another stumble through rocky syllables of Skald.<br/><br/>The young woman had caught his eye at the bar though, as she returned with a tray of empty mugs and horns. The waitress certainly seemed to fit in more with the patrons than the staff, but Menas thought little of the discrepancy, chalking it up to some unknown social convention - or lack there of. A thick, clay mug appeared before him, a silky steam curling off the light brown liquid inside. Roughly chopped leeks and turnips floated lazily around the mug. Menas took a deep breath.<em>Lamb stock!</em>he thought to himself. Given the regions reputation, he had expected a seafood stock. But as he sipped the broth and gazed around the kitchen, it revealed a much more intricate cuisine than the bard’s tales let on. The course, barley flatbreads and thick strips of salted whale meat of legend were fixtures on the shelves. Cloves of garlic, clumps of dried herbs, and bundles of young radish waiting out the winter dangled from the rafters above the kitchen. Small baskets lined the wall with small bales of greens, tubers and various herbaceous roots. A huge wooden tub shook gentle as various fish and eels circled aimlessly. Several large, beaten metal pots roiled over large coals and large oven loomed in the corner. A trio of young men hurried about fixing various platters and bowls, occasionally howling out in Skald to the rest of the wait staff.<br/><br/>Menas took another long drought of broth before unpacking a small journal and a charcoal pencil. He had just begun brainstorming the layout of his flyer when the fight broke out. He turned and gazed out into the tavern, unable to immediately pinpoint the source of the scream among the myriad voices and bodies that filled the room. But as the man’s body levitated above the crowd for an away ward moment, he noticed the young woman a second time. He grimaced and started as the bone-crunching landing rumbled through the noise of the tavern. Though he could only see flashes of her fists above the tumult, he careened his neck to see their work with a mixed expression of fear and curiosity. As the two men drug her toward the bar, and the room’s eyes followed, he quickly turned back to the bar. He sipped his two liquids intermittently as he struggled to ignore the damp warrior on the floor. For a few futile minutes he tapped his page, occasionally darting an eye to the young woman.<br/><br/>A slurp of soup to brace the nerves. Menas raised his hand at the barkeep, who saw but chose to ignore him as he finished filling a set of flagons. After a moment, Menas raised his hand a second time, and the Ulfen trudged over. He didn’t speak, but grunted in a way that led Menas to believe he was listening. “The broth is wonderful, sir. I was hoping you might explain to me what’s going on with this woman. I read a couple of books regarding your land and people. And... The man scowled at the mention of books. “Bah! Nothing good ever came of books, I can tell you that. Probably told you were all savages and fishermen, eh?” He glared over at the young woman, still sobbing lightly. “She’s not a slave, if that’s what you’re thinking. Southerns. You always just jump right to slavery... No,<em>she</em>attacked<em>us</em>. And she was captured in repulsing the raid. And as part of the compensation for our loses we kept her...” He glared over at assailant and spat on the ground. “More trouble than she’s worth, mind you. That’s not the first patron she’s beaten to a pulp either. She’s working here trying to pay off her weregild - though at this rate, I’ll be stuck with her forever...”<br/><br/>Another patron raised a hand and called out form down the bar. The keep strode away, content that he had answered the question, and clearly not interested in any follow up. Menas took another bracing sip of broth before sliding his things down the bar, and sitting near the young woman. He cleared his throat once, then agin more loudly. Neither seemed to get her attention. Finally, he swiveled in the stool to face her and began to mumble, his hands contorting slightly into obtuse gestures. Suddenly, the young woman was dry, and he clothes clean. Perhaps cleaner than they’d been in some time. “Excuse me, miss. I’m Menas Orlavsky. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”