When you had little to do with your afternoon free hours but to watch people go by, you learned that certain individuals had patterns in their routine. Whether this was intentional or not, a planned daily to do list, or simply form of habit, people tended to wander to the same places at the same times. He'd been in Myrken almost two seasons now, and had learned himself a distinct pattern certain individuals took on different days, particularly through the market. Most of this he learned as a way to look for prospective employment, as he hadn't been hired by the Lady Warden when he first arrived here, and was looking to be in the right place at the right time -- a useful sellsword for the man who had enough money to hire him.
She's late today, he thinks. Later than usual. Maybe it's that child of hers. He'd known pregnant women in his lifetime, and how the change made their habits and waking hours change, too. Maybe she just got held up.
He stands under the thatched roof of a large smithy, more specialized in a farrier's work and making iron things for building than anything to do with weaponry. The peen, peen of his hammer working away a horseshoe from the street was a familiar sound to those who walked past here day by day. It was the place he could at least ask her about something, and not worry about other prying ears or eyes catch wind of the conversation.
The smithy's shop meets the southern end, the tips of the poorer hollows just touching the town market end. They are all here, tanners, farriers, smithies, bowyers, carpenters and cobblers, and the air smells rancid of their works. Peen, peen, peen. Amber sparks fly upwards with the pumping of the bellows into a stone flue, and Serrus watches them for a moment, distracted, and would have missed her walking past had he not pulled his attentions away. But there she is, with the usual mingling crowd of the noon marketplace, easily spotted with that ridiculous looking straw hat she chooses to wear almost everywhere.
"Wynsee!" His call is sharp enough to cut across the crowd, and she would see him leaning against one of great wooden posts on the outskirts of the high roof, arms folded, leaning back with one foot propped up, the typical pose she could imagine he'd be in, when he wasn't sitting at a table drinking ale. At Gloria's approach, the sellsword will nod, voice lowering to a more conversational level.
"Mind if I've a word? S'bout Sera Nova." Straight down to business, no mussing or fussing about, is Serrus Belcaw.