It was only ten o'clock and the Dragon's Head tavern was still empty, only the faint smell of yesterday's ale and burnt fat hung in the air, reminding of the night's revels.

The tavern owner, Marg - a portly man with a wild red beard and a voice that could drown out any hubbub - was absent for now. His usual place at the counter was empty, and the counter itself seemed orphaned without his menacing gaze, capable of both shutting up an argument and caressing a guest with a heavy word if he deserved it.

The only inhabitant of the tavern at this hour was a young black-haired girl, one of the local waitresses. Sitting on a rickety chair in the corner, she listlessly wiped a wooden mug, lazily running a rag over it, and from time to time yawned widely, not even trying to hide her fatigue.