(Uh...I dunno if this is fantasy incorporated or just plain normal people in a tavern in the olden days rp, so due warning; mine has elements of fantasy. Just wanna get that out in hopes that, if no fantasy is allowed, I can be properly chastised and booted by the thread leader's whim. So...out with the ramble, in with the intro~!)

His stomach was growling, his feet were hurting, and Nyth's relentless berrating in his ear helped him none. He could not help but growl in annoyance when the accursed little demon-owl brought up that rather embrassing incident with the butcher and the oddly dressed boy blinking at him innocently with half a raw sausage sticking out of his mouth. This was not what the young man needed at the moment. What he needed was food, a bed, and possibly a woman. His black hair flittered as he adjusted his hood, drawing his cloak about him more securely as the owl flapped noiselessly beside him, chatting and babbling at him in a rather mirthful tone. The boy-going-on-man he was berrating was named Mimrial and was currently dressed in his travelling cloak, clasped at the collar by a rather worn, old looking seal bearing the symbol of an ancient and rather obscure cult. It was secured at the waist by sturdy looking belt sporting a rather nasty looking sheathed dagger. The cloaked traveller pinched his nose between his two earthen brown eyes, tainted only lightly in color by tiny rivulets of burning orange. He then continued to rub his face with his gloved hand, rather oblivious to the open door of an inn mere inches from where he stood, impatiently taking Nyth's scathing cryticism.