The dimly lit confines of the less than packed tavern made for a haven to travelers and drinkers from all walks of life. Athull, himself, was from quite far away. But after giving a hearty nod to a near by elf who had just finished tying the beard of a passed out dwarf to the bar counter, He felt quite at home. It was either that, the inebriated shenanigans, or the burn of the liquor as it passed down his gullet. Either way, Athull was delighted to receive his second round of drinks, completely unaware of the time he was losing track of. Not that he kept track of time at all. But if he did, he would be late. The stupor he was drinking himself into kept him oblivious of the other patrons. He hadn't noticed the warrior who just stepped in, nor would he have if it had been any other circumstance. Athull didn't seem to be the observant type. At least not while his face was buried in a mug of ale.