Simon stepped into the inn from the wan chill of the winter morning, doffing his bright red cap. He climbed the stairs and quietly entered the room he shared with Lothaire. It was a shame, he thought, that they shared such sparse accommodations, but work as a mercenary had been difficult to find. It was all the aging Circle mage could do to garner the odd guard job; few in Ferelden had heard of Lothaire or Simon, which was probably for the best.
Lothaire still lay in bed, likely to remain there until at least midday. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, Simon began to remove his dusty cloak and vest. He took an embroidered satchel from under his bed and opened it, removing a bundle of silk which quickly unfurled itself into a brightly colored formal robe. The garment was quite out of place in the dingy room. Simon’s wizened frame shivered as he hastened to don and arrange the robes. When they were in place as best he could see, he then attempted the task of managing his thinning gray hair without the aid of a mirror. Finally, he braided his long goatee. It was not the best he’d ever looked, but it would have to do.
Satisfied, the diplomat-mage shuffled out of the room, reviewing what he knew of their latest prospective client. If this meeting went well, he’s be able to tell Lothaire about their new job when he woke up and recovered from his hangover enough to care. Lost in thought, Simon Damont walked back out of the inn and into the frosty morning.