The freehouse was a hubbub of activity in any city, with all races and classes managing to cast aside their differences if only to enjoy one more drink. Men dined with mages, who drank with elves, who feasted with rogues, a man’s worries being cast aside the moment he stepped inside the establishment, replaced instead with a tankard in one hand, hot food in the other.
So of course, it was not the sort of place that Lyra would ever have visited in her previous life, one where she was far to aristocratic to engage people in such places as this, where drinking and fighting was rife, the noise emanating from each table combining into some chaotic din that drowned out any thought that threatened to deviate from the general theme of enjoying oneself. Lyra would have been far more likely to be attending some social function, constricting dresses and the soothing sounds of a harp replacing the almost neanderthalic behaviour often displayed by people in a freehouse. She genuinely enjoyed such events when she was younger, but now she felt more at home in the freehouse – or at least sat outside – listening to the din from indoors, nursing a tankard between fingers which seemed far too elegant and slender to be doing so. She didn’t actually like the taste of the alcohol found in such places, finding it far too bitter and strong for her taste, but alas, the fine wine she was used to was not the sort of thing they served here. That, and anyone not seeming to take an avid interest in alcohol clearly didn’t belong, and the last thing that Lyra needed was to not belong, hence her holding a drink she didn’t care for.She pulled the green cloak tighter around herself, not wanting to attract any undue attention; she had found that wanting to be left alone usually resulted in people respecting that, so long as they weren’t too drunk. However, she often found that she was quite eager to see other people, and that they often didn’t seem to notice a stranger panning their eyes over the crowd in front of them. As she watched the street in front of her, taking note of children playing, wives making their way home, and traders packing up their stalls after a long day of work. Within the assortment of people, Lyra noticed one who didn’t quite fit, a stranger. He was cloaked, similar to her, yet it seemed to be hiding something, the material seeming a bit too big to be hiding mere flesh. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t be too interested in someone who wasn’t entirely human, having seen enough of them in her lifetime, but the fact this one was hiding something was odd. Perhaps it was a weapon, maybe something else; who knew? Her curiosity was roused now, and she was interested in this stranger, whoever it was.She saw them ask a pair of men about something – she couldn’t quite hear – but whatever it was, the men didn’t have the answer they were looking for. Lyra watched the stranger leave the men alone, clearly thinking about what to do next. She paused a few seconds, before putting down her drink, walking over to the stranger in a manner that she hoped wouldn’t come across too conspiratorial; two cloaked strangers engaged in conversation was not a subtle sight.“So, what are you after?” she asked, her words making the request seem merely out of curiosity, her accent – one of thoroughbred aristocracy – making it seem like the start towards a more sinister end goal.
