The winds bluster in as the door opens, admitting a tall man wrapped in a light wool cloak. Eliul Blackswood lowers the hood of his cloak, and in the brightly lit tavern the scars on his face glisten and shimmer with an oily glow. With naery a nod to any of the patrons within does he walk to a nearby table, pushing himself onto a bench with a relaxed sigh. A slender girl is seated at a table by the window, her green eyes gazing dreamily out into the street. The table before her is piled high with toothsome goodies, elk and pie and venison in particular.