[center][color=#98ffcc][h2]Nathaniel Brightwood[/h2][/color][/center]
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It seemed as though Nathaniel had not been the only person to recall the distant, childhood promise which had brought him so far from the capital. No sooner than he had been waved off by the tavern keeper did another woman approach him, albeit one who seemed to remember his snowy white locks much better than the proprietor. It took him a few moments to place her, no doubt because in place of a soot-covered blacksmith's daughter there now stood a holy warrior, clad in steel rings and Tyrran symbology. He turned to better face her, adjusting the lute slung over his shoulder as he did. 

[color=#98ffcc]"Almost a decade now, yes,"[/color] he answered, giving her a once over with curious green eyes, [color=#98ffcc]"Tyr has certainly been treating you well—I don't remember you being so tall."[/color]

Nathaniel had little time to ruminate on Niala's growth spurt, however. Another soul had entered the sparsely populated tavern, and almost immediately approached. It was hard not to place this one—Tabaxi, while a part of Ardenfeld's populace, had always been less numerous than the other races. The bard gave a small flourish of his cloak at the feline's comment, allowing some of his finery show from beneath the heavy dyed wool. 

[color=#98ffcc]"Well enough, I suppose, though I credit the aristocracy more for my good fortune than I do Labelas,"[/color] As he looked over Timber, a thought did occur to him, although it wasn't exactly the most polite thing to note. Perhaps it was warranted, however, considering their circumstances.

[color=#98ffcc]"Time has perhaps been less kind to the two of you. I didn't think either of you the type to take up arms. Though, I suppose a desire to fight is to be expected among our number, considering our histories with this place."[/color]