Rynn slumped in the chair, the crackling of the fire a comfortable whisper in his ear, the hood of his cloak pulled down to conceal his face. It wouldn't do to have anyone recognize him. Or remember him.

Shifting into a more comfortable position, he glanced at the door, which was opening for yet another customer. For such a small tavern, it was rather full. A fresh breeze rushed into the room and he savored the clean air. The night called to him; he never lasted long in inns and taverns. Unlike others he couldn't abide in the acrid, smoky atmoshpere that made his eyes burn and tore at his throat as he breathed. He preferred to sleep under the stars with his mount curled beside him.

The stench of rum, beer, and other liquid spirits was wafting from the tables and floor like the stench of death; putrid, overwhelming, nauseating. He despised the drink for what it did to those who drank it. It stole their minds and left them as slobering fools. He had never taken a sip, not one, and he never planned to let it touch his lips. It was dangerous enough for him to be nearby when it was sitting around in mugs and pools on the ground. One word from him and the entire inn could be incinerated in a giant explosion.