Richard looked with interest at the tavern owner, who appeared to be around forty years old, with a round belly and a stature not tall, resembling a stout oak barrel. However, the horizontal lines on the owner's face, the strong arms, and the thick calluses on his hands all indicated someone not easily provoked.
The owner wore a somewhat yellowed white shirt and tied a flax-colored long pants, standing calmly behind the counter, wiping glasses. His efficient demeanor was hard to ignore, reminiscent of a character like a retired killer, which was clearly why he could control the crowd.
Richard stepped forward to the counter, the tavern owner raised his head, glanced lazily, and said, "Two guests, you're from out of town, aren't you?"
"Why do you say that?" Richard asked.
"Because the boots you wear are obviously not locally made. The area is damp all year round, and local boots tend to have higher soles, while yours are quite shallow," said the tavern owner.
