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The rain drove symestreem inside from where she had been walking. As it was, her cloak was wet through. She hurried up to the bar, scribbled a message on her slate, and slid it across.
Can I have a glass of whatever hot drink you have back there?
In a moment, a cup of hot tea was slid across the bar to the mute woman.
Thanks.
She looked for a seat by the fire where she could dry her cloak. Was that one next to the dwarf? Holding her tea with one hand and her slate with the other, she wove her way through the mass of tables. Was that a fortune-teller? He was staring at his teacup intently enough, and he certainly looked disreputable enough. Or perhaps he had imbibed too profusely of the glass next to him.
A drunken hobbit lurched in front of her and she dodged to avoid him. In the process, she bumped the man's table rather heavily. His cup of tea went over and spilled down her back, but the man grabbed the bottle before it could join the fun. Luckily, the tea was cool enough that it did not scald her.
I'm sorry! she scrawled, and placed the slate on the table. Here, take my cup, I think we have the same thing. Her cup joined the slate on the table. He seemed to not even notice. After watching his face for a minute, she retrieved her slate.
At least she was warm. She might as well put the cloak out in the rain to wash out. As symestreem headed back towards the door, she received some odd looks from the other people.
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