They step off the main square and into a small building tucked between a cobbler's shop and a shuttered bakery. Some kind of tavern, warm, packed with people winding down at the end of their day over a pint or a shared plate, the whole room lit gold by hanging lanterns and a fire crackling low in the corner hearth. The air smells of roasted onions and spilled ale, and somewhere near the back a beast-kin with a lute is playing it very badly.
The moment they step through the door, the whole room turns toward them, and a ragged chorus of greetings goes up, patrons raising mugs toward Lucien and Kamiko both, thanking them loudly, repeatedly, for the feast the day before, someone near the bar declaring it the best meal this village has had in a decade, another already comparing it favorably to his own late grandmother's cooking.
