The sound of the slamming door cuts through the quiet of the tavern like a knife through butter, and the sight of the hulking lizardfolk sends the villagers scrambling away from the fire in fright. As the barbarian begins tending to the fire rather than attacking as they expected, the villagers relax slightly and slowly make their way back to the blazing flame he created. Each of these underfed and sleep-deprived peasants inspect Gawzarth as best as possible with their peripheral vision, and in their sidelong glances you see a mixture of fear, suspicion, grief, and hope. Are you raider, kidnapper, mercenary, or hero? 

The fire crackles and pops as the firewood splits, sending a shower of sparks over those ravenously absorbing its heat. One such man gathers his muddy cloak and meager courage, and hesitantly approaches the lizardfolk, taking care to not step on the tail whipping to and fro,  "Have you traveled far, friend? I can't remember the last time one of your ilk visited our lonely little village. Are you passing through, or perhaps seeking gainful employment?" As the graybeard finishes his gently probing, you detect a hint of hope at the end.


Behind the bar of this tavern is a middle-aged woman with a dark complexion, long brown hair, and wearing clothes whose colors immediately grabs your attention. While most of the tavern's occupants are dressed in dirty furs, hides, and dull canvas; the barkeep and two others in the tavern are adorned with fine purple silks, vibrant red sashes, and gleaming gold and silver jewelry. As Kealsha removes her cloak revealing her infernal features, a small glass of watery, dark purple wine is placed before her. "First one's on the house, stranger. All I ask in return is a tale from your home. It's clear from your...exotic appearance that you are not from this area, else I'd surely have heard of you. I am Lucia Salazar, and you are?"




A broad-shouldered man with greasy black hair separates from the huddle around the fire and begins walking toward the door, clearly intending to shut it against the chill of the night. His heavy, booted footfalls and the jingle of his coins can be heard even over the roaring fire. His brightly colored clothes are draped in loose folds about him, and his hat hangs askew, veiling his eyes with shadow. He stops at the doorway, hand grasping the door handle and peers out into the darkness, looking to see if any other strangers are preparing to enter the tavern before he closes the heavy wooden door.