A lithe hooded figure sat warily at a rough wooden table within a loud tavern. They leaned tiredly against the wall behind them, shoulders stooped forward with fatigue. The figure had both bandaged hands wrapped tightly around a mug of hot drink, absorbing the precious warmth through their thin fingers. A ranger they seemed, clothed in shades of the forest, along with their signature weatherbeaten appearance. Their pale green hood was pulled down over their eyes, successfully shading the rest of their face in the hazy torchlight. Quite unawares to the small stranger, they sat at the table of a rather infamous group of men.
(Postion of the anonymous bad guy open, do whatever you want to him, make him whoever you want him to be, just make sure he notices someone sitting uninvited at his usual table.)