You enter the tavern and look around. Inside, the walls are all dark wood and fitted stone, the windows small and dusty, the lamps all turned down low. Everything about this place seems designed to drape every corner in shadows. Even the workers wear dark clothes and dour expressions.
You never have any trouble picking out Thibaud in a crowd: she is tall and lean, her hair flecked with gray, still keeping fit despite leaving military employ several years ago, and her dark skin is a constant reminder of her Dominguan origin. In other taverns, in other towns, your meeting her might attract some unwanted attention. But she's known here. The patrons of this place don't give you a second glance.
"Madame de .," Thibaud says. She stands and motions to the seat beside her, then takes a swig from her mug of beer.