The inn's door swings open sharply, collides with a stray chair and slowly swings shut again. Nothing is seen through the briefly open door but the usual view of the street outside.
A moment later it swings open again to reveal a figure, clearly an Elf, a mere shade over five feet in height. He stands just outside the doorway adjusting his reasonably intact and darkly burnished chain shirt, first tucking the bottom edge under his belt, then quickly pulling it out again. The door slowly swings shut once again as he continues to adjust his outfit and gear. As the door clicks completely shut, you notice the Elf hasn't bothered to open it again.
A few items were obvious about this one, his hair seems to be the result of having his head rolled forcibly into the ground of a nearby wood. Streaks of various shades of green and earthy browns were in force, and many clumps jutted out at various angles. A few of what seemed suspiciously like twigs and leaves appeared entangled within. His face, for the duration of his appearance, was turned down towards his hands as they worked to, apparently, spruce himself up before entering, and as such it is still unknown. Otherwise, he appeared no more unusual than the next at first glance. A bow upon his back, a sheathed sword and at least one quiver of arrows could be seen easily enough.
After several moments the voice of someone speaking can be heard from outside the closed door. It appears to be common, but is difficult to understand. Something to do with gilmends and siveltads. It sounds like nonsense to you. Then, the door once again swings open and the same Elf appears again, this time slightly less disheveled and looking straight into the room.
His face, now that it can be seen, sports the wide-eyed, slightly stupidly gaping mouth of an adolescent boy that's just seen a woman sans her clothing for the first time. This look coupled with the wildness of the hair, especially as framed in the doorway, looks more like a caricature of a real person rather than a true article.
The Elf wobbles his head as he narrows one eye and takes several sauntering steps inside, kicking at the door behind him with one booted heel. He misses the first time, but manages to catch it on the second swipe. Seemingly satisfied with his skills at closing the door, he changes his stance to arms akimbo and looks about the room. His pale eyes yield a vague impression reminiscent of the eyes of a blind man, but it is a trick of the light. Several days worth of stubble grace his chin, cheeks and throat. He at least seems to know how to shave however infrequently, though combing of the briar-patch above seems to occur on a far wider schedule.
His head jerks a bit to one side then shakes tightly as if shuddering, but he doesn't seem to notice. A loose twig near one temple is jarred loose, falls, bounces across a shoulder and dives onto the floor.
You can see now that he wears a rather pitiful excuse for a cloak, its hem torn and full of gaping holes, the rest threadbare and clearly near the end of its life. His leggings are better, but certain sections of seam are loose and threatening to split. The soft black boots upon his feet seem more intact, but it is fairly easy to see that the front section of one has already mostly separated from the sole. On that particular boot is strapped an occupied dagger sheath that has seen better condition. The quiver of arrows seen at first in the doorway, resolves into three, and the sheathed weapon is apparently a longsword or similar. The bow, clearly a well-used longbow of composite design, a few short lengths of cord bearing a number of darkly colored bangles hanging from one end.
After having taken some moments to survey the crowd already present, he turns his gaze toward the counter and meets the tender's eyes. Joe casually points to a sign upon a nearby wall, making a motion common to anyone to indicate he should have a look.
The Elf's eyes widen and he turns in the direction the finger is pointing, hunches down somewhat and takes loping strides towards the sign as if somehow stalking it. Those with keen eyes can see the outline of a small lizard, probably a gecko, clinging to the back of his cloak just below shoulder level and behind his head. Once at the sign, he slowly assumes an upright position with his face a mere few inches from the wall and begins moving his head in a way that implies he is reading each word, slowly, one at a time.
He spins and faces the crowd, then cocks an eye upward to the rafters. A moment later he leaps up and onto the counter and crouches in a stance that resembles those used by wrestlers about to engage in a bout.
"Ha-hA! It is I, the one and only..." he pauses briefly, then completes the sentence, "Aazwen, yes, Aazwen Shadewood they call me. I call myself that, too, by the by."
He then drops down, legs splayed around the countertop as if pretending to ride it like a horse. His weaponry forced to jut at odd angles in the process.
"I am, let's see, a woodsman, I think I've been called. That and a moonlark, whatever that is, eh?" His subsequent laugh comes out as a sort of hooting cackle that, after a moment, instantly dies away.
The Elf skooches along the counter a foot or two and then announces, "I am here in this fine establishment because...I'm thirsty?" He seems to recall the presence of the innkeeper at this point. "You there! Good sir innkeeper person, would you send my way a buxom wench bearing your heartiest ale? I'll be over there." A slender, if a bit bony, finger indicates a small, unoccupied table. A strange frownlike look suddenly crosses his face, and he then points to another table that is decidely occupied, but unfortunately for them, has one invitingly empty chair still open.
Now that he's made a decision on where to go next, he's left with the dilemma of removing himself from the awkward, splay-legged position he's gotten himself into. With an overly dramatic grunting effort, he manages to flip one leg over to the other side and in so doing, slides off the counter and down to the floor behind, disappearing from view for a brief instant before his form fairly leaps up again and over the counter with a maneuver decidely more adept than the last.
From there he saunters to the unoccupied chair he'd pointed out and takes a seat, quickly lounging back and sliding his rear forward enough that his head barely tops the chair's back. As he does, the gecko seen earlier crawls up to safety and takes a position atop the Elf's head. Aazwen doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't care.
"So, Sulkemin--you don't know him--tells me this is the place to come to find other places to go, is that right?" His eyes go wide again and a rather comical look of anticipation takes root on his face. "That is, this is the place to go to find people that are going to other places."
He blinks once or twice, as does the gecko upon his head, before looking around at the adjacent tables, "Anyone...here...going...some...where? Interesting?" The gecko laces a long tongue across one eye before becoming inanimate again.
