At the back of the tavern, there's another tiefling. He's sitting with his back to the wall and a clear view of the entrance, nursing a drink by his elbow, a large axe propped beside the other arm — an oddly large weapon for someone who otherwise looks fairly weedy, but so be it — and his interest seems piqued at the new arrival.

Malcius Derdenvaad has been on an irritating, open-ended errand for a while now: to find new recruits for his mercenary group. Their last engagement left them down a couple heads (one hospitalised for the foreseeable, the other quite literally beheaded), and they're in need of replenishing their numbers — so, as one of the newer members himself, they've camped him and other members out at various bars and pubs scattered across the city. Don't come back until you have a prospect.

Mostly, the Leaky Tap has been been grubby farmhands and merchants looking to unwind for the day, not the standard swaggering adventurer ready to brawl and take up arms, glinting with destiny and derring-do. Mal's been close to calling it for the night, finishing off his drink and leaving, when this fellow walks in through the doors. Certainly a fighter, with all those muscles and hard-used equipment.

Interesting, he thinks, and waits and watches as the other tiefling gets his drink. Finishes his chat with the barkeep. When the fighter turns around, Mal outright just gives Heli a wave and a beckoning gesture, pointing to their drinks — he'll buy him a round.

Never been particularly good at discretion, Mal.