Lorraine suppressed an urge to shake herself on coming in. The short walk from stable to inn had her cloak damp, bordering on sodden, from riding in this drizzle. She rung out the worst of the wet at the door. A cautious sniff, and a look around at the other patrons, then she walked over to the merchant's tables, and found herself a space at one of them, prying off her helm as she went. A look at the contents of the trenchers her companions are eating from tells her what to ask for when the barmaid finally notices that she is sitting there.<br/>"I'll have some of whatever he's having." Lorraine says, nodding at the broth-that-might-contain meat, vegetables, potatoes and .... bread? whatever - that the man beside her is busy wolfing down. The barmaid nods and skitters off, avoiding groping hands with the grace of long practice. Soon, Lorraine has a meal of her own set in front of her, and she is listening to the renewed burst of conversation around her as she eats. She eyes the contents of the tankard she's just taken a sip from - either her taste buds have finally given up, or this place actually serves the good stuff...