The main door was beginning to open again as they left the counter, and a group of new passengers made their way into the main hall... not survivors from the main ship, in this case, they must have been passengers on the sister vessel-- a boar of a man, black-bearded and no more than five feet tall-- struts in first. "Alright!  Where's the women?!" and the fair, sturdy hostess rolls her eyes in return.  "Well look who didn't drown... Pawken Fritz," and his fierce leap onto the countertop to seize her about the neck is met with a wrenching, fierce twist and grapple... it probably takes a few moments to recognize that, yes, the innkeeper does seem to be wrestling with the tall dwarven man quite earnestly, but not actually<i>fighting</i>... best not to think too long on it, as they engage in a strangely fierce and flirtatious wrestling match, with him laughing maniacally as she grins and wrenches his head about.<br/><br/>Their laughter is odd in the silence of the main hall, but it is not unwelcome.  The sound of such laughter, after the survivors' ordeal, is both crass and comforting, the sound of living with all its spite and gratitude.<br/><br/>*<br/><br/>The next few minutes, as they settle in after their journey, are met with a steadily increasing lift of voices from the hall.  The sound of clay mugs being set on heavy wooden tables, the clinking of a few coins... as they emerge from their purchased spaces, they find that the relative quiet of the feast-hall is now replaced with the murmur and occasional outcry of socializing sailors, workers, and merchants.  The door swings inward again and again, and modestly-dressed servants emerge from the kitchen area with trays, collecting handfuls of coin, delivering empty plates first, setting out clay bottles sweating-cold in the humidity.<br/><br/>Smells-- good ones-- are starting to fill the hall.  Most of the workmen are wearing fresh shirts, their breeches still damp from sweat or, possibly, fresh washes at some well.  Thunder echoes in the rafters, and is met with a cheerful cry-- it's early, and the room is barely half-full, but it's clear to see that this tavern will, quite possibly, get raucous later.  A couple of servants set about opening the heavy wooden shutters-- they seem to keep the place battened-down in the heat of the day, but the thunder signals breezes, rain-- and cool air begins to make its way into the large room.<br/><br/>The heavyset bookseller seems to have packed up his wares for the moment, and is now chewing on the step of an unlit, long-stemmed pipe.  He stares at Jin, or perhaps Calathes? or maybe all in turn? with a cold, level-eyed determination, as placid as a frog and just as unconcerned, like he could leap away from his dining table without a care and disappear into his books and scrolls with a splash of paper, disappearing entirely.  The half-elf woman is selling her cigars, though no one seems to have lit theirs just yet.  A few familiar faces are about, and some survivors from the ship are mixed in with their passengers and laborers, though the workmen from the ships are, undoubtedly, still at the docks laboring at the cargo.  Some of them will probably never set foot from the docks onto real soil before they depart for another treacherous leg of their never-ending voyage.<br/><br/>There are empty tables still, but there probably won't be for long.