A knock on the counter and a call of “Ey, barkeep!” was all it took to call the humanoid manifestation of positivity out of the kitchen, his smile shifting ever so slightly at the sight of her.

“Late sleeper, huh? I take it you want to have breakfast ‘fore you deal with the beastie,” he accurately predicted as he dusted his hands off on his apron.

Zelsys gave a nod, asking, “What’s on offer?”

“I’ve got meat pie and mashed potatoes with gravy sauce two gelt a portion, or fish chowder one gelt a bowl,” he offered, his eyes glimmering with a strange knowing spark. “Drink of the day is cider, got couple barrels in just this morning. Same price as ale.”

She couldn’t help but stare him down for a little longer than was normal, nonverbally questioning. He broke after just a few seconds of this little staring contest, reassuring that, “I ain’t hear nothing. Thanks for helping me find a leak in the insulation with that Fog of yours, though. Now what’ll it be?”

A small chuckle escaped her at that. “I’ll have the chowder and a mug of cider,” she chose, reaching for her Tablet and retrieving two coppers. Her breakfast arrived as quickly as the barkeep could power walk in and out of the kitchen, and to no surprise at all, the soup was obviously just the main course from yesterday recycled. He swiped the two coppers off the counter, and left to attend to other customers.

Upon actually eating a few spoonfuls, Zel found herself pleasantly surprised by the fact that it actually wasn’t as she thought at first. It had the same type of fish and similar herbs, but that was where the similarities ended. The cider was as any good cider should be, fruity, light, and refreshing, what little alcohol it contained barely noticeable. In a few minutes she had banished her hunger and left the inn, with the intent of making her way down the street towards the very gate through which they had entered the town.

However, something distracted her. When she stepped out onto the street, she heard a somewhat distant voice bellowing out to what sounded like a small crowd, down the street in the same direction she was going. The source of the noise soon came into view - a heavily scarred, rugged looking Ikesian man, sat atop a suitcase with a five-stringed acoustic instrument in his hands. Not quite a banjo, not quite a sitar, and not quite a lute, but rather some strange elongated amalgamation of the three. He idly plucked away at the metallic strings, noodling a melancholic melody as he adjusted his tool’s many tuning pegs. At his feet, there sat a large drum that reached up to his knee, a steady pounding rhythm emanating from it with each tap of his foot.

Zel’s curiosity drove her to come closer, to mingle with the crowd and observe the street performer up-close. He wore a loose, beige-colored cotton shirt and patchwork, dirty-green trousers in the Ikesian military style, held up by suspenders.