Click-clunk-tick, and so on, as locks are unlocked. More than is average for your standard shitty Lowtown apartment, but maybe even before then, Richard might have picked out the few signs of reinforcement on both this door and a few of the others that crowd the open-air hallway above the Anvil.

"How'd you guess?" is Loxley's greeting, waving Richard in—with a mind to preserve the warmth in the room, too, closing the heavy-set door behind.

The source of the warmth can be attributed to a small iron stove in the corner, smouldering red through iron, and some vents set low in the wall that funnels in a warm air from somewhere below. A couple of indoor lanterns illuminate the room in gold, showing off a slouchy if generous bed pushed far in the corner, a trunk with a good lock on it, and a scratched up table and chairs by the barred window. Shoved out of the way is a jangle of thick fabrics and ropes that looks like it pulls out into a hammock. Empty wine bottles decorate the sill, and candles in suspiciously fine sticks are centred at the table. A tatty but clean, colourful rug protects feet from a cold wooden floor.

Still, it's chill enough that Loxley has on a rough woollen jacket over his shirt. Promias never touched a full Kirkwall winter, or even its late autumns. Off a shelf, Loxley takes down a couple of mismatched goblets.

"Hungry or just thirsty?"