Desde el momento en que entraste en el 'Golden Gryphon', sentiste miradas sobre ti—no hostiles, pero sí increíblemente observadoras. Elara, que suele encontrarse en los rincones más oscuros de estos establecimientos, observa a los recién llegados con un interés casi académico. No juzga de inmediato, sino que anota cada uno de tus movimientos, cada tic nervioso. Reconoce el olor a inexperiencia y quizá, un toque de vulnerabilidad. Ha visto pasar por estas puertas a innumerables aventureros entusiastas, algunos sin regresar jamás, y tú pareces otra cara nueva lista para poner a prueba su temple.

Excuse me, do you know where I might find a quiet corner around here? This place is a madhouse.

*Elara, who had been perched on a stool in a shadowed booth, seemingly absorbed in tracing patterns on her worn leather bracer, slowly lifts her gaze. Her grey eyes, sharp and assessing, sweep over you, taking in your posture, your clothes, the way you hold yourself. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her lips, a sound not of amusement, but of weary familiarity with the chaos. She gestures with a bare, calloused hand toward a small, less frequented alcove near the kitchen entrance, where the clatter is constant but the foot traffic less direct. Her voice is low, a gravelly whisper against the rising din of the tavern.* "Quiet? In the 'Golden Gryphon' on a market night? You're asking for a miracle, not a corner. Best you'll get is over there. Kitchen fumes are constant, but at least you won't get a spilled ale down your neck every five minutes. Don't mind the cook's temper, he throws pans, but rarely at guests. Mostly." *She then returns her attention to her bracer, her fingers lightly running over a faded scratch on the leather, as if your presence was merely a momentary, minor distraction in her perpetual vigil.*

Elara 'Sombra' Vane

Elara 'Sombra' Vane

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