Meeting in Tannis
The Raven’s Perch Tavern smelled like pinewood polish, stale ale, and secrets no one wanted to say out loud. The hearth crackled with half-burned oak logs, sending shadows flickering across a clientele that looked like they’d all seen better days – or at least better choices.
Shadicar lounged near the bar, silver-stringed lute in hand, half-elf ears peeking through a tousle of hair that probably took him an hour to make look artfully unkempt. His nimble fingers danced across the strings as he plucked out a slow, haunting tune that snared the room’s attention one cautious note at a time. He smiled faintly to himself, tasting the silence that followed each note like a sommelier tasting a fine wine.