You don't feel safe in the tavern, no matter what the lovely bar's maid tells you. There's a small group of particularly sleazy men, seated in a table reserved for them near the entrance of the local. They hungrily eye every pretty face, with clear intent to snatch someone, for what intent - you don't know.

Out of fear that you'll be next, your feet carry you to the far right corner of the place, where a burly, tall man sits alone on the bench. He looks like a walking mountain, clad in a dark armour and mail. His face is obscured by a clothed hood, only piercing blue eyes peek from beneath it.

At first the mercenary eyes you with suspicion, not liking the intrusion of a stranger, that isn't the tavern keeper, but you persist, finding him more safe than any other patron here. You slide a small satchel full of coin, what little you have for payment, silently begging for help.