A man in his early 20’s enters the Inn, a brown pack over his shoulders. Through the dirt on his face it’s obvious his young features, high cheekbones and full lips, but his clothes scream “sellsword!”. He’s a man who stands out in the tavern more than even the Argonian barkeep. From his height, you’d guess he was a Brenton. From his skin color, you’d guess he was a Redguard. From his muscle, you’d figure him to be a Nord. But his hair speaks loudest, long and pulled back into a bun, a dark reddish brown wavy mop, coated in a layer of grease from his travels. The man doesn’t look like he’s been here before, taking a moment to glance from corner to corner to familiarize himself with the place before finally taking a seat on a lone table in the furthest part of the bar. He then moves the second chair of the table closer to him, using it as a footrest. Pulling open his bag the man unveils from a sheet of cloth some dried meat and begins to eat. It’s obvious he’s not Highborn, as he uses no fork or knife but instead his teeth when he tears into the meat. He doesn’t seem to particularly care how others feel about that fact, and acts as if he’s the only man in the room.