A young human male enters the tavern. He looks to have seen no more than sixteen summers and is wearing a very neatly pressed and collared shirt of deep blue; a crest of entwined silver and gold rests upon his left breast, and a tattered leather-bound book hangs from his right hip.
His hair, golden blonde and neatly parted, seems to shimmer in the soft candlelight of the taproom. His trousers, pressed and creased, are of the same blue as his shirt with thin silver and gold rope trailing down the length of either side.
He walks up to the counter and grimaces as he looks down at the stool. He produces a handkerchief from his front pants pocket and wipes the stool before replacing the cloth to his pocket and sitting down. He raises a finger and says, to no one in particular, "Water in a clean glass, if you will. Also, if there is something palatable that hasn't been sitting in a pot for a fortnight, I will have that as well."
