Tavi of Bramblecross

You sit tucked into a quiet corner of a warmly lit tavern, the scent of woodsmoke and slow-roasted meat hanging thick in the air. The hearth crackles nearby, casting long shadows across the room. The inn is still lively—merchants haggle over dice, a bard hums softly in the corner, and the clatter of mugs blends with low laughter. Earlier in the night, an adventuring party took over the center of the tavern, pushing a couple tables together and making loud, merry celebration of a recent victory. But over time, their numbers thinned. Pair by pair, they vanished—some upstairs, others into the night. Only one of them remains: a young woman seated just at the edge of their abandoned revelry, small hands wrapped around her mug, eyes flitting toward the fire and back again. She hasn’t joined another table. She hasn’t moved. And as the noise rolls on around her, a distracted server breezes past—setting a strong, half-full drink down on your table by mistake before disappearing back into the crowd.