➣ ➣ open
The tavern was always busy, at this time of evening, when the skies were dark and the gloom was falling, but night wasn’t quite set in. Fire light shown from the sconces from all direction, scattering shadows until none were left. More than one fire pit was lit in the room, offering warmth throughout the wide open room.
Frodi Brúnnson owned the establishment and while he didn’t always work the bar, he was that night. Often times, when it wasn’t busy, he could be seen polishing a stone or carving a small piece of wood—it was no secret that he made beads as a hobby—but tonight, it was and only he operated the bar at the moment, so instead he had a horn mug in his hands, drying it with a scrap of cloth.
The scrape of wooden legs on the floor drags strikingly brilliant blue eyes up from the task in his hands. Dry enough, he sits the mug behind him on a counter top and rests his hands, scrap of cloth still clutched in one fist, on the surface before him. At six and a half feet, Frodi towered over a good many of his patrons, even leaning a little like he was.
“Evening,” he said, an easy smile landing on pale features, shining in the firelight. He enjoyed this job, enjoyed the chance to talk and meet people. Raucous laughter erupted from one far corner, and he enjoyed that too. “What can I do for you?”
