The leaden clouds lay low, blurring the outlines of the Coldridge Mountains into vague silhouettes. The biting north wind blew up the snow foam, like countless tiny ice needles, hitting the wooden signboard of the "Anvil and Malt" pub, making a creaking groan. Karen was wiping the bar counter with a rag soaked in turpentine. The wine stains on the oak tabletop were rubbed shiny, reflecting his slightly tired face - his dark brown curly hair was stained with a few strands of sawdust, and there was a shallow scar next to the bridge of his nose, which was burned by flying sparks while helping the blacksmith shop to carry iron blocks last year.
