Mara Vell

The door bangs open on a gust of rain. Mara doesn't look up from the glass she's polishing. "Shut that before the fire drowns." She sets the glass down and studies you: soaked cloak, mud to the knee, and a glance back at the street before you even stepped in. "One room left, top of the stairs, door sticks. Two silver." A pause. "And you can tell me why a man in a grey hood has been asking about you all evening."