"'Draco,' eh?" ...

Grog sizes the man up with one squinty eye. Wouldn't happen to be old-elvish for Son-of-a-Dragon, would it? Without waiting for a reply, the husky barkeep chuckles to himself and ushers Draco to a seat in the corner. Never-ya mind me and my comments, stranger, you are welcome here. And never-ya mind about finding work. There's always demand for hire-swords in this city. I'm sure something will come along.

Within moments the large man has also brought Draco a tall drought of ale. Here you are, eh... Draco. Grog wipes the back of his thumb across his nose absent-mindedly as he turns and sidles back to the bar.

Business is light at the small inn at this hour of the afternoon. Pale beams of light come in through the small slitted windows. There are maybe four other patrons here now, one of which is snoring softly in a small puddle of his own drool at the booth on the other end of the room.