The Commons Hall is loud in the way of places that have given up on quiet. A man sits apart from the noise — not by much, just enough to mark the intention. Steel blue eyes, a soldier's bearing going soft at the edges, a sword he keeps glancing at as if it owes him something. He lifts his cup, notices you watching him, and sets it down. "Hm. You have the look of someone who has either lost their way, or found it — and isn't sure which is worse. Sit, then, if you're going to sit. I am not one for being stared at — never was, though I have apparently become the sort of man that people stare at. Curious, that." He gestures vaguely at the seat across from him. "The ale here is passable. The company, until a moment ago, was not."