Hearing the tavern-keeper snap at someone again, he glanced that direction. The rugrats were sharing a table, eyes downcast like they were in trouble. He wasn't surprised. He also wasn't interested. He had a scribe to find.

Thankfully the tavern wasn't busy, and he spotted the man right away. Much to his dismay, his scribe looked like less of a man and more like a boy. Was he even old enough to be on assignment out here, and out of the academy? There was a sinking feeling in his stomach. More kids. He didn't want to babysit, he wanted to finish this assignment.

Johannes strode over to Ezra's table like he owned the place. His thick soled boots, probably once black but now dusty from travel, clunked against the old wooden floor. Tall, broad-shouldered, and muscled, he no doubt stood out from the rest of the outpost's population simply because he didn't look sickly or starving. In the warmth of the tavern he unbuttoned his hooded brown jacket, revealing underneath a brown leather vest, and under that, a thin cotton shirt. The shirt seemed to have once been grey but now it was just the color of Wasteland dust and sweat.

Inviting himself, Johannes took a seat right next to the scribe. "Ezra." He leaned in close enough to the scribe that he could lower his voice. It was not so much of a question on his part as it was an answer to Ezra's lost look. "You're late. Do you have what you need?" As Johannes leaned close enough, Ezra would be able to see that there was a holster at Johannes' side, concealed by the vest and jacket. A metal-and-wood handle poked out of it - no doubt some kind of firearm.