Calla tilted her head to the side so that the snow piled up on her antlers would fall to the wood floor. She glanced over to the bartender and the jars of arctic preservatives that filled the shelves behind him. Outside the door the nymph had seen a couple of supposed hunters with the pelts of fox and hare draped over their shoulders as they chatted beside their dogsleds.
Inside the tiny tavern, near the bartender was a staircase that probably led up to a few rooms for the stray traveler, hunter, or fisher. Calla wondered how the boy that was Ulricus, whom was neither hunter nor fisher, even found the inn.
"Calla is a nymph." She murmured flatly, "Nymphs do not get cold like humans..." She folded her arms on the table before her and tilted her head down toward them, the slightest hint of snark in the girl's tone, "Of course, Calla does not know much about humans. She is just a stupid nymph, after all."