Janus Faustus sat at a small table in the back corner of the tavern, purposefully positioned so that he could scan the length and breadth of the room without exposing his back or leaving any unnecessary blind-spots in his vision. His coffee was as dark and bitter as his sense of humor, but at least it kept him awake and made the heat of the room seem more than bearable compared to the heat of his mug. It was true he was an Imperial, but he was sun dark and wore clothing in the airy, concealing desert fashion favored by those who chose function over fashion in the face of desert living. Today there was a single scar that ran from under his right eye across the length of his right cheek, a fake but an excellent one. 

Occasionally, he would set down his mug and fiddle with the long dagger he wore on one hip, or adjust the short sword that balanced it on the opposite side as if he might have to clear them from their sheathes in a hurry, but other than this seeming habit he seemed to be a road-hardened tradesman long at ease in Hammerfell, as indicated by a number of rings on his fingers and a bulging coin purse at his waist. He watched the party of travelers as they entered and approached the bar. He'd paid the bartender in advance to direct any who might want rougher work over to his little table. After all, he was a man of means looking to get his name out there by financing parties of do-gooders for hire: an Adventure Capitalist of sorts.

At least, that was the rumor he'd paid the bartender to tell, the one he'd be peddling himself as well. For now, it was enough.