Enjoying the warmth both of the fireplace nearby and of the half-glass of wine coursing through his veins, Dmitri sits atop a stack of books while writing steadily into another that lies open in front of him on the table. He pauses, muttering to himself and tugging idly at his long mustache, and then scratches down one final sentence before blowing on the page to dry the ink, closing it, and slipping it into the satchel that leans up against his chair.

Slipping down off of the stack of books, he slips them also into his satchel before throwing its strap over his shoulder and heading out into the snowy yard behind the inn. It had been an uneventful day, and most of his valences remained unused, leaving him feeling rather antsy. However, using them frivolously would be wasteful, so he merely went for a stroll to use up some excess energy, his small, booted feet crunching in the snow and his staff leaving a pock mark every few feet.