While it’s fair to say that Ezlan perceives all woman as a different creature unto themselves, this is not true for all races. Tiefling, Tiefling are a hard exemption to this exception. 
Upon the sight of those horns and tail, an old wound tingles with un-fond memories. Autonomously his fingers find their way to it and trail along the old raised scar tissue. Dancing gently and slowly as if to try sooth the history. They trace it along its long journey across his upper left hip, just below his ribs as it reaches around ever so violently towards his back. Amongst all the others, this scar sits prominently on his body, the healed flesh long since faded, still sitting like a wide river through his skin. 
While Ezlan might be a man of reckless pursuits, danger, adrenaline and adventure, this is one he could go without living through again. 

“Ah’righ gang, we got our orders, let’s reconvene at the Drunken Huntsman. I should probably go ‘n’ get dressed.” 

As usual Ezlan spoke boisterously and with that ever present smug confidence. He gave his comrades a half-hearted sarcastic salute and then disappeared down the halls whistling as his bare feet slapped along the cold floors.
They had no reason to meet back up or start their journey at a tavern, but then again, when in all of history did a caerbean ever need one.