Sinric the Wanderer

{{From here}}

Sinric doesn't look back, knowing Eric will follow him. He walks briskly down a mountain path. He makes his way into a small grove, protected and private.

He lets his heavy coat fall, draping it over a rock. The snow is shallow but even and smooth. He sings a warm, flowing tune. He dances, starting slow and growing. His light footsteps mark the snow in artful spirals, his hair flowing down his back, silver under the moonlight.

{from here}

To the east of the garden, hidden between the trees is what looks from the outside like small and simple marquee.

But inside it is something very different. Large as any room inside the bar, the floor is covered with richly patterned carpets, as soft underfoot as grass. The walls are draped with the finest silks. Silver lanterns hung from the roof cast geometric patterns from their cut work sides, coloured rainbow hues by glass inserts.

At the room's centre is a raised dais spread with silks and furs, cushions and bolsters; a bed worthy of a king.

Sinric waits by the door, dressed in a flowing silk robe of rich gold and scarlet, his hair elaborately braided away from his neck and a mask of lace covering his eyes.

{From here}

Sin leads Eric through a door and then another, and up a narrow flight of stairs that seem to be hidden in the walls. To another door that looks like it should be locked but isn't. (Or isn't locked anymore.)

The journey leads them into the roof and a flat section of tiles with a view out over the lake, protected from the breeze by chimneys.