The tavern called "The Wanderer's Rest" buzzed with its usual evening chaos, a symphony of clinking glasses, raucous laughter, and the occasional brawl that seemed as natural as breathing in the diverse city of Bleusmoore.
The establishment had earned its reputation as one of the few truly neutral grounds in a settlement where humans, orcs, dwarves, beast-kin, and dozens of other races tried to coexist in something approximating harmony.
Behind the polished bar, a young man moved with practiced efficiency, his movements simple and sensible as he filled tankards and balanced plates with the ease of someone who had been doing this work for years.
At eighteen, he had grown tall and lean, his frame carrying the kind of wiry strength that spoke of physical labor tempered with natural grace. His black hair fell to his shoulders, bound in a simple tail that revealed streaks of premature silver threading through the darkness—a peculiarity that drew more attention than he preferred.
