A denizen of the Inn since shortly after his own whirlwind--perhaps whirlpool--arrival, Cael has seen plenty come and go through its lower floor. Plenty at the fire, drying their simple clothes, staring into flames. Even those places that trafficked in spirits and ciders sold warm drinks through the year, the city beset on all sides by the ocean and its storms.

They have donated jars of whiskey to put in tea, behind the inn's bar, and he plucks one up in his free hand on his way back to fire.

Two separate cures for the shakes, just to cover all the bases. He'd been tuning his lyre in the corner, settling in out of the cold to distract himself with familiar songs, but left to fetch the tea when the man came back down the stairs.

"They're thin clothes to start," he comments, wrapped in his deep gold shawl and the thickest of his few tunics. "These will help, but I could also fetch you a blanket, sir--"

He hangs the word with an inclination of his head, letting the man fill in a name.