Downwinter was an odd surname for a desert dweller.  Mr. Sera Downwinter had been just that for nearly a quarter of a century, but he had left the wastes behind for adventure three months past.  He had discovered the bones of a spent wayfarer then, and within his luggage, the fortune which would deliver one Downwinter here, to Kendra in the nation of Keoland.  But like that wayfarer, his fortune too had been spent.  Most of it was spent to furnish comfortable travel, but some of it had been used wisely in an assortment of equipment.  Five silverpence remained, and Mr. Downwinter, who had the airs of an educated man, wondered how to spend it.  On a full bodied port, or a thick, foamy ale?  He couldn't decide.<br/><br/>The thought rolled across his mind as he looked out the window beside his table within the comfortable, hot inn.  He looked up at the sun, then across the small road.  He watched the departing wagons and thought cheerfully that it would be a bit quieter in town now.  But that mood dissolved when he remembered how dreadfully poor he was.  Five silverpence!  Enough perhaps for a night.<br/><br/>"I need a job," he mussed.   "How dreadful.  But do not panic.  You've a good head on your shoulders."  He had been attempting to increase his own morale when he witnessed the bubbly female (DARICA) approach an old man by the entrance of the inn.   "Oh good heavens.  A helpful stranger.  What a sight." He rose to his feet, hurried to the door, visibly altered his appearance to one that was a bit more suave, and then swaggered outside.<br/><br/>"Tidings," he said, smiling boyishly at Darica, and nodding helpfully towards the old fellow.  He then looked up at the sun, as if he were conjuring the path of a delightful constitutional.<br/><br/>OOC:<br/><br/>GM, how much does a room cost at the inn?