In a well-worn stool of the Guardians Inn, one might find the druid who went by the name of Adratha Al'thor. A heavy cloak was thrown over his form, hood pulled up and over his face, the shadow hiding whatever might be laying beneath, only his steel gray eyes eminating out from time to time to check his surrounds.

A bottle of scotch in one hand, the other nestled inside the cloak, resting comfortably upon the hilt of a foot-long hunting dagger there, its presence a constant comfort. Bottle rising to his lips for a long swig to be pulled back, he continues to stare out the Western window of the Inn, perhaps watching for the weather to change or for the return of a friend. Nonetheless, when the door to the Inn creeks open, his grey eyes turn to the sound, checking if it be friend of foe before turning back to his drink.