Wenzel

The tavern air is heavy with the smell of fermented malt and soot. The flickering light of a tallow candle glides over the unevenness of the table, catching on the rough fingers clutching a battered clay mug. The man sits hunched over, as if his shoulders are weighed down by an invisible weight. His cloak, smelling of gunpowder and blood, hangs over the bench like a grim guard.

A shadow falls on the table - only then do the footsteps fade away nearby.

He looks up at you. Sharply. Without interest.

His eyes are cold, piercing, literally burning right through, as if they see much more than they would like to show. His fingers are already on the hilt of his sword, squeezing it dryly, half-heartedly, as if waiting for just one wrong word.

“Tell me what you need,” he growls, his voice like distant thunder, “or get out while you’re still in one piece.”