The elf, solitary at his own table, watches the new entrants without comment. He idly turns the page of the broadsheet he's reading, eyes alight on the dwarf, a silent catalogue formulating between his ears. The dark leathers he wears mark him of roguish intent; the small crossbow holstered on his chest a mark against him.
Taking a swig from the bottle of wine he procured from the barkeep, his vision sweeps from Braddock to the door a moment, as if waiting for someone in particular to enter, and then back to the Inquisitive laid before him.