[OOC sountrack suggested: Taverns of Azeroth, by David Arkenstone]

It is late night when Wyatt, the Innkeep of the gryphon's Nest, the only public place of Gallows End, the last civilized outpost on the way to the northern border, weaves in a group of three gaunt travellers with the thin lips cracked by cold wind.
They don't look in great spirits nor in great shape, especially the Elf, that looks particularly tired and his clothes are stained with blood crusts.

As they sit down along the walls in the warm room, with a fireplace in the middle, a few guests that were sleeping in the room wake up. At first they complain, then they realize what the situation was and calm down.
All eyes are on the newcomers, while Wyatt hurries up warming some milk before serving it with honey sprinkled over it. Wyatt knows that the travellers urgently need to lift themselves up, before doing any talk.

Galendra strolls into The Gryphon, greeting her fellow villagers with nods, smiles, and pats on the back. She dawdles for a moment, building up the courage to talk to the prodigal adventurers.

Galendra is a tall, awkward, but Hale and hearty young woman. The smell of a fresh catch is always with her, because she spends much of her time fishing with her father. Her hair is long and dirt blonde, and she wears a worn leather cuirass over her drab peasant attire. An ancient, but well cared for sword hangs at her belt. Her green eyes plainly display her aspirations to a more eventful life, but they also show a naivete that can scupper even the most well laid plan.

"Hullo, milords. I missed yews last time yews stopped over. Me da' told me yew was 'venturin' types. Now see, I'm as good with a blade as I am with a fishin' rod, which is to say a fair bit better than mediocre. Will yews have in in yewr band?"
This message was last updated by the player at 22:25, Sun 31 Dec 2017.

It is late night

Of course, for Rorn, that means it's more like early morning.  The youngster has his schedule almost completely turned around these last two moons, since with the end of autumn and the coming of winter the best hunting now comes at night.

In between hunts now, for at least a few days, the farmer sits huddled by the warm glow of the fire, knife in one hand and half-whittled piece of maple in the other.  Given a few more days, the woodcarving might be a wolf, or a bear, maybe even a fish.

Speaking of fish ... Rorn's nose wrinkles up at the sight of Galendra.  Naturally the two knew each other since Gallows was a very small place but they'd never really run in the same circles.  Rorn preferred moving prey, although there was nothing wrong with a net full of fish.  I suppose.

The newcomers were not known to him but certainly looked like the ones the gossipmongers had been going on and on about since they'd left for ... wherever it was they went.  Been gone and back, look a bit winterworn too, Rorn decides.

Nursing the last bit of his cider, he watches to see if they'll send Gal scampering away, or treat her friendly like.