[@Samdragonx]
It was the smoke that woke our sleeping hero.

Ravadon's eyes peered open to witness the amber light of flame dancing across the walls. Beside him, a small fire flickered over a handful of sticks and ashes. A boy, no older than twenty years of age (closer to 17-18), crouched nearby with one arm dangled over his knee, the other fingering an envelope on the floor. A black patch covered his right eye, a stark contrast to his youthful, almost effeminate features. A small sheath on his hip held a dagger. The lazuli-infused robes and light armament indicated a Draganite Battlemage, a fearsome warrior, if their reputation held over the years.

The boy's eye turned to Ravadon. He studied the man, particularly his right hand, upon which a freshly branded cross burned with ethereal power. "Welcome back to the world of the living," the boy said at last, a smirk tugging at his lips. "It's a mercy the elf found you when she did. You looked poisoned or something, but I've fixed you right up. Oh! I boiled some coffee for us. Have some." He poured a little from the kettle, and the life-giving liquid gurgled into a mug.

The boy offered it to Ravadon.