In the Snowdrift Inn, Alalla finishes dressing and spends some time in front of a small mirror to do some minor maintenance on her dreadlocks. When she finishes smoothing out any odd lumps and distributing a small amount of oil throughout her hair, she puts on her weapons belt and checks that her hand axes and glaive blade are all sheathed securely. The weapons remind her of her success the night before, and her spar with the elf Erevain. She thought on the battle, and the elf's graceful movements, fondly, and as she reaches for her coat she notices a small tin that had fallen from her pack. She picks it up and finds herself drawn again to her mirror, where she examines her complexion. A little face cream could help hide the green tone that lies under the deep brown of her skin, she thinks. Immediately annoyed with herself, she moves to put the tin back in her pack but hesitates at the last second, torn. She grumbles and pulls the lid off the tin, and rubs a small amount of the brown cream over her face and neck before throwing it roughly into her pack, grumbling unintelligible insults at herself, all elves ever born, knucklehead trout, and the first knucklehead to decide to fish them. She grabs her coat, the staff of her glaive, and rushes out the door on her way to look for Hrothgar's house. If she ran into a certain elf as she went about handling business, then... "Then I'll kick his behind in the arena." She grumbles under her breath.