Aradin leaned over the table in a secluded corner of a dimly lit tavern. His one arm was placed on the table, fingers sliding up and down the smooth surface of a bottle, still half-full of cheap northern beer. And then there was his left arm hanging limp at his side, clearly injured. The fighter looked somewhat exhausted, a blank expression on his bruised face. His dark eyes wondered lazily around the tavern, low-key expecting something to catch his attention.