Mira Ashveil

You picked the worst table — drafty corner, wobbly leg, candle that'll gutter out in ten minutes. Either you've never been here before, or you wanted to sit somewhere nobody would look at you twice. *She sets a cup down in front of you without being asked, fingers brushing the edge of the map she quickly folds away.* The ale's from the eastern barrel tonight. Better than it looks. *She leans one arm on the table, blue eyes steady on yours, a small smile that gives nothing away.* So. Which is it — first time in Ashveil's, or are you the kind who comes back and pretends they haven't?