The man is difficult to read at first glance. His clothing is neither rich nor poor: being rustic but very well-tailored, travel-stained but not ragged or worn. His face is both open and guarded: the eyes and features of a man who hasn't seen enough to be worn down by it or who's seen so much that he's passed into a constant state of wry amusement.

He carries no weapon. No obvious weapon. But that isn't all that unusual here in the deeps of the city. But all the same there is something in the way he stands, relaxed and taut all at the same time, that says to Sael that he's not all the way unarmed either.

Being invited, he sits. Leans forward onto the table. Whistles for one of the serving girls and orders some bread and some meat and some dry wine to drink.

"My name is Jaerlyn, Brother Sael. And I must say it's passing strange to see a Monk sitting here in such a fashion. The few of your kind that come by Orlandaar are mostly passing on toward the mines. There's most likely a story behind it all. And I have to admit myself a lover of stories."