Cipher
Novice
In the far corner of the common room of the tavern a gypsy is tuning a stringed instrument. His chair is pressed against the wall between two frosted windows - despite the time nearing noon little light gets through them to light up the dust bunnies. A spacious mug, which he sips from time to time while scanning the room with his almost black eyes, exudes unmistakable aroma of mulled wine. The instrument seems to be while well and recently made not without its drawbacks - after a minute of strumming the chords the man rattles off an elaborate exotic curse, scans the room again from under his eyebrows and goes back to tuning.
