A man... or whatever’s left of a man, stands planted outside in mud in front of this tavern... this nameless tavern. “Heh” he lets out to himself. “I was once nameless for thousands of years where I toiled and danced the devil’s dance. But I’ve taken on a name these days...” He thinks with great reverence. “What do they call me...? Ah! Conda.”

His eyes scan a badly distressed bulletin flapping fitfully in wind. “Seeking adventurers” it says. This doesn’t interest him, yet the trust this offer implies; taking in any odd traveler who’d find them self here and putting them to work- had tenacity which deserved a closer look. But not yet, the man stays standing poised like a hawk on roost looking over all of the fine blemishes and angles of the tavern. He will enter when ready, when instinct and foresight come together. Until then he sees, breathes, and remains... Conda.