Not even close

Jorella puts her feet up on a spare chair and leans back, showing off her gold-lined, fine leather platform boots. They had cost the merchant as much as these people earned in 3 years.

"Oh barmaid!" Jorella called out as condescendingly as possible as the crowd watched her fish out another gold coin and flah it to the room, thinking that would get the maid's attention faster. "Bring me a bottle of your finest wine."

The tall and lanky blonde rolls her eyes before picking up a bottle of the only wine they sell, cheap stuff made down the street, and sets it on Jorella's table. "Can I get you anything else?" The blonde asks, praying there isn't.

"Bring me a steak, and some potatoes... oooh and some stew... and bread," Jorella rattles off before shoving her coin down the flatchested barmaid's shirt. "And be quick," she adds with a condescending pat on the blonde's blushing cheek.

The barmaid walks away, her face contorting with rage.

"I see you have impeccable taste," says a male voice from the bar, with a (to us, the readers, a bad fake French accent. To Jorella it sounds strange and exotic).

Jorella sits up and looks over.

A tall, swarthy man with well-trimmed facial hair approaches her. He is wearing a breastplate and has a sword on his belt. He is tall and somewhat handsome.

"May I join you?" He asks the merchant, as his steely blue eyes cause her heart to flutter and her loins to stir.

"Pl-Please," she says, utterly captivated by this strange man.