Thank the Twelve the tavern is warm. It's a blessed relief after all that snow. In a way, it reminds her of her first days away from home, as a fledgling adventurer seeking work in the Carline Canopy. The low rumble of sound of patrons talking over their drinks, the smell of a fire in the hearth, fresh baked bread and stout ale passing by on their way to tables. Hmm yes, and the awkwardness of being an obvious outsider too. While Celinie is actually quite short for an Elezen, she's tall to those of Thedas, at least for an elf, standing on an equal height as some of the tallest of men in the room.

She has her soft brown eyes set on one of those conspicuous spots in the back, seeing it empty and feeling it will at least put her out of the way and limit the amount of commentary she'll elicit. However, the only way there is a very narrow path through the center of the room as the building is packed tight. As she passes by Nathaniel, she nods politely. But before she can shufflescoot further towards the back, someone far too deep into his cups throws his arms up, clonks her rightly on the temple with his mug in his drunken flailing, and sends her grabbing at a table to avoid falling smack into Nathaniel's lap.

Ow. This is hardly remaining inconspicuous.