Shyla left Felan and his scouts at the edge of the trees and made her way into town alone. Well, except for Whiskey--riding dogs weren't common, but they were prolific enough this far north that he shouldn't draw too much attention.
There was a community stable near the tiny inn at the edge of what could be called the town proper where she paid a hostler to take care of the animal. She unloaded a walking stick from her pack--a tool she didn't usually need in the Howlers' encampment, but definitely came in handy in new environments--before making her way into the inn itself.
Immediately, she was assaulted with the noise. And then the smell--human bodies and alcohol and food and worn wood all blending into a veritable wall of sensory information. She actually swayed in place a moment, then forced her shoulders to straighten and started making her was cautiously toward the densest cluster of sound--where she assumed the bar was.
She kept one hand on the wall to help orient herself as she moved; she didn't see it, but a few of the patrons who glanced over and seemed to realize why she was moving in such a way actually gave her some room. Whether that was out of courtesy or superstition about conditions like blindness was unclear.
Eventually, she felt the edge of the bar and stopped. She didn't quite want to risk finding a seat, so she just cleared her throat and called a cautious, "Excuse me?" and hoped that was enough to get the barkeep's attention.
