“The dark-eyed man wore a long robe, faded by the sun, and his head was wrapped in a strip of dirty white cloth in several layers. Most of those who had gathered in the tavern that evening looked the same, but Alaric immediately realized that this was not one of the usual customers. Everyone chatted, drank, laughed carefree, sat women on their laps, who themselves were not averse to having fun, raised large mugs for no reason, shouting loudly to each other and to the owner of the establishment standing at the table. People who spend money carefree, so Alaric's songs have already brought him some income from their drunken generosity. But the dark-eyed man sat quietly in the corner with one glass of wine, watching the crowd. The hand holding the glass was strained, the forearms protruding from under the rolled up sleeves were tanned and wiry. The hard worker, Alaric thought, stopped at the only tavern in a tiny town on the edge of the Western Desert...”