The tavern's dim glow rested on the faces of weary men and women alike, huddled in the musty room, seeking solace from the ever-present northern chill. Leather coats, worn thin by the years, hung from the shoulders of tired souls as they clung to jugs of ale, each one silent in its lament.

"The gods must be cruel to force us to endure this blasted wind," a crooked-nosed man muttered into his drink, face flushed with what most assumed was anger, but was in truth likely the familiar comfort of cheap liquor.

A woman, draped in thick furs, sneered at him over the rim of her own cup, the smell of which would make any lesser person wince. "You still believe in the gods? Fool, it's not the gods that rule this land. It's those in castles and on thrones."

"Oh? And do they care for the likes of us?" the crooked-nosed man shot back.

Two men in the corner, too weary from a long day's work to care for harsh exchange of words, began gossiping about the king and his queen in hushed voices, while others struck up a muted song thick with melancholy.

The woman smirked as her eyes scanned the dim room. She set her jug down with a resounding thud, and declared with a shrug, "No, I reckon not. But better to bow to the ones who've real power in their hands than whisper to the wind."