Waylon adjusted the hair around his ears for the third time that day. He let out a small breath, which billowed out in a small cloud, despite the fireplace burning brightly to the side of the building. Valan was… much colder than Caelor.

“Just, uhm… the stew. Please,” he murmured to the bartender with an awkward little smile. He shifted on the stool hesitantly.

He was nervous. Of course, very few really cared about an elf being in Valan, war or not. They may give him a dirty look, murmur some rude comment beneath their breath -- but that was the extent of most Valanian's hatred. They had better things to do than concern themselves with him. Still… he had reasons to hide his origins.