Hekesh

The door to the inn opens and a billowing wind carries in an ever-so-subtle hint of a scent, of salt, cinnamon, and dryness. Through the doorway walks a dusky skinned man with loose flowing clothes in sandy colors. He carries a guisarme over his shoulder.

He walks to seat near the fireplace and rests his guisarme against the wall. He slides his pack from his back and sets it on the floor next to the guisarme.

Pulling the chair out from the table he sits.

The fire is nice. These northern lands are so cold.